Thicker Than Blood
by CorvetteClaire
Summary: It is Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts, and Voldemort has returned to full power. The Death Eaters assault the castle and lay siege to it, injuring Draco and trapping the students inside. Chaos and much angst ensue. Eventual Harry/Draco slash (be warned!).
1. The First Breach

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Author's Note: Hello, everyone! This is something of a departure for me. I don't usually write Harry Potter fanfic, and I don't usually write Slash. But I felt like doing something just for fun, and for reasons that pass my understanding, I find Harry/Draco slash fun. So here is Chapter 1 of my "just for fun" Harry/Draco Angst-Ridden Romance, Action-Adventure, Evil-Creatures-Are-Attacking-Hogwarts and Stuff Happens fic. 

The story begins in the winter of Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts. It starts right in the middle of a crisis, so if things aren't making heaps of sense just yet, give me some time to get in all the exposition. This chapter is fairly standard stuff - no swearing, sex, violence or stuff to make your mothers cringe. But consider yourself warned... THIS WILL BE A SLASH STORY. A tame one, but slash. I may raise the rating to R for violence later.

I hope you enjoy it. -- CC

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Thicker than Blood

By CorvetteClaire

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Chapter One: _The First Breach_

"There's another one over here!"

"No, Harry, come back!"

"I'm telling you, there's another one!" Even as the words left his mouth, Harry's foot caught on something soft and heavy, making him stumble in the pitch darkness. He fell to the grass, landing on his outstretched hands, and immediately scrambled around to find the body on the ground.

Hermione's footsteps padded nearer on the thick grass, and he could hear her ragged breathing. She was scared. They were all scared, Harry included, but he knew he had a responsibility to find all of his classmates, no matter how frightened he was. Dumbledore had given them a section of the outer wards to check, and he meant to check every foot of it before he ran back to the safety of the dungeons and the inner wards.

His hands found the body, and he began to search upward, looking for the face of the dead child. 

"Dumbledore said to be back in half an hour. No longer. It's already been..."

"This one's alive!" Harry gasped, as his hands touched bare flesh and he felt warm, fresh blood under his fingers. 

"What? That's impossible! We're right up against the wards! The blow must have been right..."

"Shut _up_, Hermione, and _help me!_"

Her voice muttered "_lumos_" and a wan, blue light sprang up in her cupped hands. Then she knelt beside him and held the light where it fell on the face of the unconscious student. Both Harry and Hermione gasped at the same moment.

"It can't be..." Hermione protested.

"Malfoy!"

"I've never seen anything so awful, Harry! His face..."

Harry stared down at the face of his arch enemy and felt his stomach contract in horror, but at the same time, he knew a certain morbid fascination. Unlike Hermione, he had seen worse. Much worse. But then, he had stood face to face with Lord Voldemort when he rose from the dead, and one mortally wounded teenage boy was nothing in comparison. But whatever had happened to Draco Malfoy, he looked like none of the other students they had found on the grounds that night - dead or alive.

Draco lay sprawled on his back, his head tilted up and his fingers buried in the thick grass as though he had been trying to anchor himself against a terrible force. His face, always pale, was dead white with a ghastly grey cast to it, his eyes sunk in purple-black shadows. His lips were drawn back in a grimace of pain and looked almost black in the eerie blue light from the wand. They were stained with fresh blood, also showing black, and more blood ran from his mouth with each slow, labored breath. As Harry knelt there, staring, he thought he saw a gleam from beneath Draco's eyelids. He reached up to lift one lid and saw that his eyes were glazed over, nearly opaque, and the pupils dilated hugely.

"He can't be alive," Hermione said.

"He is. He's breathing."

"What do we do?"

"Take him back to the dungeons with us and let Dumbledore figure out what happened to him."

"He looks like a... like a zombie or something."

"He's bleeding, Hermione. If we don't hurry, he'll die."

Harry saw her face twist with indecision, and he knew that she was fighting the urge to say, 'This is Malfoy we're talking about. Just let him die, and let's get out of here.' It's what he was thinking, in between thoughts of how important it was to get just one person - even this person - back to the castle alive and know that they saved _someone_ from the horrors of this night.

Hermione, being Hermione and too honorable for her own good, controlled the urge and got to her feet without saying anything. Handing Harry the ball of wand fire, she shook out her sleeves and waved her wand over Draco's body.

"_Wingardium leviosa_."

The body floated gracefully upward, halting abruptly when Draco's fingers refused to let go of the grass. Harry quickly grabbed his right wrist and pulled, freeing his fingers from their death grip on grass and earth. Then he lifted the arm and crossed it over Malfoy's body. The left hand came away with a tug, but Harry found it strangely heavy, and he dropped it twice before he finally managed to fold it over the right one. He frowned over this but said nothing to Hermione. In a moment, they were hurrying over the grass, their way lit only by the blue glow of the wand fire, the night gibbering with unseen terrors all around them.

By the time they had delivered Malfoy into the hands of Madame Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore, then given Snape a careful list of those they had left behind on the grounds - and where to find them - Harry was beginning to shake with reaction. The dungeons were well lit and warmed by large fires, courtesy of the staff's powerful wands, but he felt chilled to the bone and sick to his stomach. McGonagall fixed him with a piercing stare and told him he was in shock. Madame Pomfrey ran a harassed eye over him and ordered him to lie down before he fell down. He looked round for some place to sit and relax.

Hermione was huddled in the corner, talking to Ron and Neville, both of whom looked as bad as Harry felt. Had they found anyone alive, he wondered? Ginny and Lavender Brown had been sent to clear the upstairs dormitories, and they had come back with a large group of traumatized but mostly unhurt students. Harry couldn't help wishing that he'd been given such an assignment, but he knew that Dumbledore had sent his best students - the oldest, the most well-trained, and the most powerful - along with what teachers he could spare to search the grounds for stragglers. It was the more dangerous job, farther from help and the safety of the inner wards, and it required a stronger stomach. Luckily, most of the students had been inside the castle, so Harry had been forced to locate and identify only a handful. 

__

Only a handful. It was an appalling comment on what had been happening over the last year or so, and on what had happened here at Hogwarts tonight, that he was able to think of _only_ a handful of students lying dead on the grounds with relief. And he had found one alive. He'd found Draco. But what had Draco been doing at the edge of the school grounds, close up against the wards, at the moment of Voldemort's attack? And what on earth had happened to him to make him look so ghastly? So terrifyingly and grotesquely dead, when he miraculously wasn't?

Harry gave Hermione and Ron a wan smile but did not join them. He could see Dumbledore, Pomfrey and McGonagall huddled around a makeshift hospital bed and guessed that they were examining Draco. When Snape strode over to the table and fell into conference with Dumbledore, Harry knew he was right. Figuring that he had a right to know what was going on with the fellow student he had personally retrieved, Harry padded over to the group of teachers and moved up close to Dumbledore's side.

They were all leaning over Draco, with their wands in their hands, their faces lined with worry and something more unsettling. Something like fear. Harry bit his lip and willed his own fear away. And he listened.

"It is a summoning charm, no question," McGonagall said, "but I've never seen one with so much power behind it."

"It must be very old," Dumbledore mused. "Perhaps carried since earliest childhood. See how worn the silver is and how closely it fits to his wrist."

"I'll swear I never saw that on his arm before tonight," Snape said.

Dumbledore ran a hand over something on Draco's left wrist and murmured to himself, "Very old."

"An invisibility charm?" Snape asked.

"So it would seem. It remains unseen until activated. At that time, a charm as strong as this one would not be able to keep itself hidden. It takes far too much power."

"Do we take it off?" McGonagall asked.

"No. Not yet."

"That charm is a direct link to Voldemort's people!" Snape protested. "Only Lucius Malfoy or Voldemort himself could have given it to him. If you leave it on his body and leave him free in the castle, it's the same as letting a Death Eater run free among us!"

"Now Severus, you know that is an exaggeration. For one thing, young Mr. Malfoy is in no condition to run anywhere. For another, there is no saying how he will react to its call when he awakens."

"It took him out to the wards tonight," Snape insisted. "It must have. Lucius knew the attack was coming, and he used the charm to summon his son, to get him out of Hogwarts before it fell to Voldemort."

Dumbledore sighed. "That does seem likely."

"But why is he still here?" McGonagall demanded, "and how was he so dreadfully hurt?"

"He did not answer the call fast enough, perhaps, or he could not get through the wards and was caught in the onslaught. My guess is that he was near the very point of attack. There is much dark and foul magic about him. These injuries were not made by physical blows."

"Whatever they were made by," Madame Pomfrey interrupted, "they must be treated, now, or the boy will die. I have no medicines with me and only the most basic of first aid supplies. If you will give me leave, Albus..."

"No, Poppy, not yet. The castle is not safe beyond the inner wards. We must find the means to save Draco with what we have in the dungeons."

"My potions supplies are at your service, Headmaster."

"Thank you, Severus. I think we will need them. But we will also need some of your equipment. I think Mr. Malfoy needs blood. Do you have the means to draw some from a donor - assuming we can find one - and give it to Draco?"

Snape thought for a moment, then nodded. "I do." He glanced around at the crowded, noisy dungeon with its huddled groups of sobbing students and added, "Might I suggest that we move Malfoy into the potions classroom, or perhaps into my office, where we can do this without the entire school watching?"

"We must find him a comfortable and protected place to rest, somewhere he can stay once the transfusion is complete. What of the Slytherin dormitories?"

"Packed with students from the other halls, I'm afraid."

"Can we set up a bed, or beds, in your office?"

Snape nodded. "We'll manage something. How many beds?"

"Two. Whoever gives him the blood will need a place to rest afterward. And I fear..."

The teachers all leaned forward earnestly when he hesitated, their eyes gleaming in the firelight. 

"What is it, Albus?" McGonagall urged.

Dumbledore shook his head, brushing away whatever thought had been plaguing him. "I fear we have little time. Let us find someone whose blood is a match and perform the transfusion as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Poppy and I will try to mend some of the damage inside him."

As the group of teachers scattered to their appointed tasks, Harry faded back into the dimness of the dungeon, trying to be unobtrusive. He did not move away quickly enough to miss Dumbledore's final words to Snape as he prepared to leave. Catching Snape's arm, Dumbledore drew him close to murmur, "Sixth and Seventh year students, Severus, only the strongest and the most well-trained. Bring them to me before you test them."

"How much blood do you plan on taking?" Snape asked, tensely.

"Only a pint or two, but this may not be the end of it. Choose carefully, Severus. Very carefully."

Harry did not stay to hear more. The veiled message in Dumbledore's words made knots in his stomach and started his mind spinning in dark, troubled directions. When Professor Dumbledore said 'this may not be the end of it,' he was not talking about more blood transfusions. Of that Harry was sure. But he couldn't imagine what else Dumbledore had in mind or let his thoughts wander too far in speculation. 

He hurried over to where Hermione and Ron still sat huddled together and plopped down next to them. He had only begun to tell them what he had overheard when, not at all to his surprise, Snape loomed over them. The Potions Master's dark eyes studied their faces, his own features frozen in what passed for an impassive mask on Snape - a cold sneer.

"Potter, Granger, report to Professor Dumbledore in the Potions dungeon."

"Did we do something wrong, Professor?" Hermione asked, before Harry's elbow to the ribs could stop her.

"Just do as you're told, Miss Granger."

"Yes, Professor," they both mumbled, climbing to their feet.

Once Snape had moved on, Ron tried to stop them, to ask Harry what was up, but Harry didn't hang around long enough to explain. He knew what Snape wanted, and he knew why both he and Hermione had been selected. The strongest and the most well-trained. He felt the knot form in his stomach again and wished he'd had time to get Hermione's take on all of this.

They filed into the Potions dungeon to find a dozen students there before them. All were from their own class or the seventh year, and all were people that Harry recognized as among the top group of students in each House. To his surprise, he found Neville Longbottom among them, sitting next to Dean Thomas and looking terrified.

Harry walked over to the two Gryffindors and sat down next to them. Neville gave him a tight smile.

"'lo, Harry. Any idea what's going on?"

"My guess is there's been another attack," Dean muttered, "another breach in the wards. They need students to help shore them up."

Harry looked startled. "What makes you say that?"

"Look around, Potter. Who d'you think is here?"

"Who?" Neville asked, swallowing painfully.

"The very strongest wizards in the school. Not a one of us is below Master Class, and we know it, even if we don't admit it."

"What about me?!" Neville squeaked.

Dean gave him an exasperated look and rolled his eyes. "You're as strong as the rest of us Neville, when you're scared enough to use it."

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Was that why Snape chose him? Harry wondered. _Is Dumbledore picking students for a task so frightening that it would scare even Neville into using his full powers?_

Neville was staring at Harry, his eyes begging for reassurance. Harry tried to smile at him. "I don't know about the wards or why Snape wants the strongest students, but I do know why we're here."

Hermione turned accusing eyes on him. "You didn't tell me that!"

"Snape didn't give me time. It's about Malfoy."

"_Malfoy!_" the others chorused, indignantly.

"Hermione and I found him on the grounds tonight, alive but badly injured. Madame Pomfrey can't get to her stock of medicines, and from what Dumbledore said, they probably wouldn't help anyway. Malfoy's been hit by dark arts spells - bad stuff - and he's dying."

"Serves him right," Dean muttered. "I hope it was his father's spell that got him, the ferret-faced little bugger!"

"Dumbledore's looking for a blood donor."

"A what?" Neville asked.

"It's a Muggle thing. A person who gives blood to someone who's sick or hurt, to keep them alive 'til they can heal. Malfoy's bleeding internally and needs blood, and if one of us has the right kind of blood, we'll be asked to give him some."

Neville looked more frightened than he had at Dean's talk of breached wards and Death Eater attacks. "I don't think I want my blood in Draco Malfoy's body."

"You're not the only one," Dean retorted. "Why don't they ask one of the Slytherins to do it? They'd be happy to bleed for that..."

"Dean," Hermione said, severely, "don't be crude. Draco will die without the blood, and we can't just... I mean..."

"Can't we? _I_ can."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd seen him out there on the grounds. He may be the biggest beast in nature, but he's still just a boy, really."

"He's sixteen, like the rest of us," Dean interjected, "and like the rest of us, he's old enough to know better. If he's gonna hang around with Death Eaters, he deserves to get fried by one of their spells."

Hermione sighed but made no further argument. She, like Harry and Neville, knew that Dean would not truly refuse to give Malfoy his blood, if it turned out he was a match. But he would be thoroughly obnoxious about doing the right thing, if only to make himself feel better about helping a Slytherin and to cover up his fear.

The entrance of Professors Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall silenced any further discussion of the matter. Dumbledore made no open announcement of the reasons for them being there but paced quietly through the room, gazing into the face of each student. When he reached Harry, he paused and smiled, a twinkle creeping into his eyes.

"Have you filled in your classmates yet, Mr. Potter?"

Harry swallowed nervously. "Uhh, no Professor."

Turning away, Dumbledore nodded to Snape. "Excellent, Severus. Please proceed."

Snape moved quickly among the students, McGonagall following behind him with a large tray in her hands. It took him only a moment to swipe a piece of gauze over a student's fingertip, pierce it with the tip of a sharp knife, and let a few drops of blood fall into a stone bowl he took from the tray. Harry couldn't see what happened to the blood in the bowl, but he saw the frown on Snape's face and the concern in McGonagall's grow with each try.

At last they came to where the Gryffindor's sat. Hermione stoutly offered her hand first, and Harry watched curiously as three drops of dark, thick red blood fell into the bowl. It appeared to be full of water, but when each drop struck the surface of the liquid, it made a slight spitting noise and an oily sheen of color spread away from it. Hermione's blood turned the liquid pink with green ripples. Dean's did the same, and Neville's turned it a purplish blue.

Harry was last. He held out his left hand and set his teeth, determined not to flinch when the knife blade bit into his skin. Whatever his failings as a human being, Severus Snape was a deft and skilled technician. The gauze wiped something cold onto his fingertip - not alcohol, as it would have been in a Muggle hospital, since it made him go numb - then the sharp blade cut him swiftly and painlessly. Blood welled up from the cut when Snape squeezed his finger, then it ran slowly around the curve of his finger and plopped into the bowl. Harry watched, fascinated, as a sheen of gold spread across the surface of the liquid. 

He did not need the relief in Snape's face or to hear him turn and call to Dumbledore, "We have a match, Headmaster," to know what that shining, oily puddle of gold meant. It had been inevitable from the moment he overheard Dumbledore talking to the teachers. He was Harry Potter, and everything really unpleasant that happened at Hogwarts happened to him. Why would this be any different?

Professor Dumbledore did not look any more surprised than Harry felt, but the smile was notably absent from his face. He gazed down at Harry kindly, his lips pursed in thought, and nodded his head once.

"Come along, then, Harry."

"Excuse me, Professor," Hermione piped in.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Doesn't... doesn't Harry have the right to say no?"

Dumbledore turned to gaze intently at Harry. "Well, Harry? Do you want me to find someone else?"

"Is there anyone else, Professor?"

"Undoubtedly, but not with your qualifications."

"Err, Professor?"

His calm unimpaired, Dumbledore turned once more to Hermione. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"What qualifications could you possibly need for a blood donor, except that he have blood of the proper type?"

"Wizard blood is a bit more complex than Muggle blood, Miss Granger, so it is not simply a matter of type. But that aside, what I may require of Harry is something I will discuss only with him."

Hermione grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him close, hissing in his ear, "Don't agree to do it, unless they tell you the whole plan, Harry! Dean's right that there's more going on here..."

Harry jerked his arm away and muttered back, "I don't want to think about that. I just want to get this over with, do what I can to save Malfoy's rotten life, and then never have to look at his ugly face again."

Hermione bit her lip and said nothing, but Harry knew her well enough to tell what she was thinking: It doesn't work like that. 

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Of course not, Harry thought, glumly, _it never works like that for me_.

Turning back to Dumbledore, he said, "I'll do it, Professor, if you think it's best."

"I do think it best, Harry, and I think it long past time we got started. Come with me."

With that, Dumbledore swept him out of the dungeon and into the dank, low-ceilinged corridor. Harry followed and was grateful to see that Snape and McGonagall had remained in the Potions classroom, at least for now. He wanted a minute to talk to Dumbledore privately.

Quickening his pace to catch up to the taller Headmaster, he asked, "What is it you really want from me, Professor?"

"For the present, only a pint of your blood, Harry."

"What about later?"

"We'll see."

"I, umm... I heard you talking before, in the dungeon."

"I know you did." Dumbledore stopped at a large, heavy wooden door and waved his wand over it.

"You asked for the strongest and best trained students. And you didn't even let Snape bring any of the teachers in for testing. But Neville was there, and Neville can barely cast a spell unless he thinks his life is in immediate danger."

"You are very observant, Harry."

The door now stood open, revealing what had once been Snape's dark, dank, oppressive office. All the furniture had been pushed aside and a cheerful fire lit on the hearth. Candles were dotted about to light the room, and in their yellow glow, the jars and bottles that lined Snape's shelves did not look quite as gruesome as usual. The office looked almost inviting, until Harry glanced down and saw two pallets laid out on the floor, with a collection of needles, tubes and bladder-like bags on a table between them.

"So what horrible, life-threatening thing are you afraid I'll have to do?" he asked Dumbledore.

"Nothing, I hope."

Harry followed Dumbledore into Snape's office and sat down on the chair he indicated. "You hope, but you don't really believe it, do you?"

"Let us worry about one crisis at a time, Harry. I will ask you to do nothing without your full understanding and consent, and not unless it is truly necessary."

"Which means you won't ask until there's no way I can back out."

Dumbledore smiled. "You are distressingly adept at second-guessing me, for such a young man."

"I may be young, Professor, but I gave up being innocent a long time ago, and I've had lots of practice at figuring out what adults are really saying when they don't tell you anything."

"So you have. But you do trust me, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Harry answered, promptly.

"Then you must relax and take events as they come. There is nothing else to do in such a crisis."

Harry tried to follow Dumbledore's advice. He submitted to Madame Pomfrey's various orders, dressing himself in his pajamas and lying down on the pallet nearest Snape's desk, and he allowed her to fuss over him without complaint. When Snape arrived, things got really unpleasant. They stuck a needle in his arm and hooked it up to one of the bladder bags. Before long, Harry could see the bag turning a sinister shade of brown through its membranous casing. His blood, pouring into the bag. His blood, which would soon be given to Draco Malfoy, of all unlikely people.

Watching the blood flow into the bag made him dizzy, though Snape told him, in his most caustic tone, that they were not taking enough to weaken a good-sized rat. Madame Pomfrey assured him that it was a natural reaction to watching his own bodily fluids run out of him, but this explanation didn't help any. Harry had to close his eyes and turn his head away to still the queasiness in his stomach. 

After only a few minutes, Snape tapped the tube with his wand and sealed it closed. Then Madame Pomfrey pulled the needle from Harry's arm and wiped the puncture wound with something cold that smelled of burnt feathers. It made his arm stop hurting instantly, but it didn't make his stomach stop churning.

He was still trying to convince himself that the sickness was all in his head, when the door banged open and Hagrid ducked through it. The enormous gamekeeper had a bundle of blankets in his arms that he carried without noticeable effort. It wasn't until Hagrid laid the bundle down on the pallet next to Harry that he realized it was Malfoy. The other boy was still unconscious, his head hanging limply back over Hagrid's arm, his long white-blond hair coming loose from its usual ponytail and lying in a snarl around his face, his skin a ghastly shade of white that seemed untouched by the warm candlelight. 

Harry stared at him, shocked to see him looking so ill after all the most gifted wizards in the school had worked to help him. As Hagrid settled the lifeless body on the bed next to Harry's, one hand slipped from beneath the blankets and hit the floor with a dull thud. It was Draco's left hand - the one Harry had struggled to lift, that had seemed so unnaturally heavy. The hand looked like a claw, lying there on the floor. The fingers were still curved to hold a fistful of grass and earth, the nails showing a bruised purple in the dimness of the dungeon. 

Around Malfoy's wrist was a curious kind of bracelet. It was made of pale, polished silver, fitting close to his arm, and it had no clasp or opening that Harry could see. Across the top, where the face of a watch would be, was an oblong of purple crystal that lay, pulsing gently, against Draco's skin. And all around it, in a wide, angry swathe that circled Draco's wrist, the white skin was burned a livid red.

Harry shuddered at the sight and looked away, but it was too late. He had seen Malfoy lying there like a child's broken toy - like something Dudley had smashed and discarded - and it was too late to forget. Against his will and against all reason, he felt sorry for Draco Malfoy. 

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Harry lifted a hand to cover his eyes. He wouldn't look again. He wouldn't watch them jab a needle in Draco's arm and pump Harry's blood into it. He wouldn't think about the burns on the other boy's wrist or how he had gotten them. He wouldn't remember the dull, dead thud Draco's hand made when it hit the floor. He would think only of the six years he had spent in this castle, being tormented by that vicious, rotten, cheating, hateful, _evil_ little git and try to be glad that he was finally getting his just deserts.

A shadow fell across his face, and Harry opened his eyes to find Madame Pomfrey bending over him with a cup in her hand. "Professor Snape brewed this up for you, Potter. Drink it, like a good boy, and get some sleep."

"I'm not a boy," Harry mumbled automatically, as he took the cup and wrinkled his nose at the contents. It smelled better than he had expected, coming from Snape, and he felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to drink the potion and escape from this horrible night for a while. Smiling at Madame Pomfrey in apology, he lifted the cup and downed the potion in a few gulps.

It wasn't nasty at all. _Snape must be losing his touch,_ Harry thought. _He's been almost nice to me tonight, and he didn't try to poison me or fry my tastebuds._ Setting down the cup, he rolled onto his side and pulled the blankets up around his ears. He felt immensely tired and oddly warm, as though the potion had lit a comfortably banked fire in his stomach. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. _He's probably so worried about that rat Malfoy that he didn't remember the arsenic,_ was Harry's last thought as he drifted off to sleep.

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To be continued...


	2. For Hate's Sake

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Author's Note: Thank you to all of you who read Chapter 1. I hope you enjoy the next one... 

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Chapter 2: _For Hate's Sake_

Hermione sat on the cold stone floor, her back to an equally cold stone wall, sipping a cup of Pepper-up Potion and wishing she had simple hot chocolate instead. She was already chilled and miserable and did not want to be forcibly awake into the bargain, but Professors Flitwick and McGonagall were circulating through the room, handing out steaming cups to all the students and bullying them into drinking the potion. Hermione was too used to obeying Professor McGonagall to balk now. She took another swig of the hot drink, noted absently that it drove the aching cold from her legs, and gazed around the crowded dungeon curiously.

Hermione did not ever remember seeing this chamber before, which came as no surprise, considering how carefully she avoided the Hogwarts dungeons as a rule. It was a huge single room, easily as big as the Great Hall, with a vaulted ceiling held up by clumsy stone buttresses that stuck out from the walls. Students huddled in groups between the square pillars, divided by House, by age, and by attitude as much as by the layout of the room. Huge fires burned on the hearths at either end of the chamber, and iron braziers that looked very medieval in this setting were dotted about the floor, filled with glowing coals. Sleeping bags lay in rows, like lumpy purple cocoons, from wall to wall, with knots of students collected around the braziers in every open space. Teachers prowled among them, carrying lit wands, stopping to gaze intently in the faces of those students who were still awake.

__

Looking for what? Hermione wondered. _For signs of shock, of illness, of injury? Or maybe of treachery._

Her eyes strayed toward a knot of Slytherins gathered around a brazier nearby. If the Headmaster wanted to find possible sources of trouble, he would do well to start with them. She would be willing to bet her allowance for the term that they were hatching some nasty plot to lead the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Or at the very least, to poison the Pepper-up Potion and put everyone in the hospital wing. It was a good thing that Malfoy was out of commission...

Her mind sheered abruptly away from that thought, and her eyes moved to another group of students in a vin attempt to shut out all awareness of the Slytherins.

__

Let them plot, she thought, sourly. Draco was clearly the brains of the outfit, and without him, they couldn't do any real harm. Crabbe and Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, a pair of hulking bruisers from this year's Quidditch team whose names she could never remember because their personalities had been removed at birth. They didn't have more than a teaspoonful of grey matter between them. Without Malfoy, they were lucky to find the door to their own dungeon.

Malfoy again. Why was she thinking about Malfoy, with all the other terrible things she had to worry about tonight? Maybe because Malfoy was in Snape's office with Harry, and Dumbledore was planning some dark and secret piece of magic that would make Harry feel even more responsible for Malfoy's fate than he already did. Or maybe because his ghastly face and bloodstained lips were stuck in her mind, haunting her, like a scene from a bad horror movie. Draco Malfoy, King of the Undead. 

She shuddered and pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. 

__

Am I afraid it's true and Malfoy has been turned into Voldemort's apprentice zombie? she wondered._ Or am I just afraid of what Dumbledore is doing to Harry and Draco right now? Do I want Malfoy to suffer for what his father has done? Do I want him to suffer for what _he's_ done? Or do I just want someone to help him, before it's too late?_

Someone, but not Harry, she decided. Not Harry. If Snape's test had shown that she was the best match for Malfoy's blood, she would have gone without a murmur and done whatever Dumbledore asked. But Harry had been through enough - more than enough - and he shouldn't be asked to risk his life or his sanity or whatever else they were planning to take from him for the likes of Draco Malfoy. It simply wasn't fair.

The big, iron-bound door swung open, and Dumbledore walked into the dungeon. The age and weariness in his face were a blunt reminder of the horrors they had all suffered tonight, but he was smiling as he moved among the students and his step was light. Hermione gazed at him for a long moment, turning over her concerns about Harry and Malfoy in her mind, trying to muster her courage to approach him. Then she saw him head for the Slytherins, and she jumped to her feet as if her legs were spring-loaded. Not only did she want the full truth from Dumbledore; she wanted to hear what that pack of blast-ended skrewts had to say for themselves.

Hermione trotted up to the group just in time to hear Pansy Parkinson demand, in her most shrill and grating voice, "We have the right to owl our parents, Headmaster! You can't keep us shut up in here, if we don't want to stay!"

"Quite right, Miss Parkinson," Dumbledore answered, still smiling. "You may send your parents an owl just as soon as it is safe to enter the upper castle."

"When will that be?"

His eyes twinkled disconcertingly at the sullen girl. "I couldn't say."

"What if we want to go home?" she asked.

"Then you may go home. With your parents' permission, of course."

"My dad's right outs..." An elbow to Goyle's ribs choked off his words, and Millicent hissed something in his ear that made him turn a dull shade of red.

Dumbledore was no longer smiling. "I cannot allow any of you to go onto the grounds until I have word from your families that they want to remove you from Hogwarts, and that they are... waiting for you. When I have such assurances, any student who wishes to leave the grounds may do so." He paused, then added firmly, "And any student who wishes to stay will have the full protection of the school and staff."

Hermione bit her lip and stared hard at the faces of the Slytherins. They were all looking at Dumbledore resentfully, except for Crabbe, who was shuffling his feet and gazing stupidly at nothing. Hermione couldn't tell whether he wanted to stay at Hogwarts with Dumbledore and was afraid to say so, or whether he simply didn't understand the conversation. 

"What about Draco?" Pansy pursued, doggedly. "Will you send him home with us?"

"That is up to Mr. Malfoy."

"Where is he? Why can't we see him? One of the Prefects said he was..."

"Miss Parkinson, I would suggest that you get some sleep. It has been a very long night for all of us, and if you are indeed to go home soon, you will want to be rested and cheerful when you meet your parents. We can't have them thinking we don't take good care of you."

Pansy's pug-like face twisted with anger and, to Hermione's amazement, she burst into tears. "When Draco's father gets here, he'll make you sorry!"

"Sleep well, Miss Parkinson."

Dumbledore turned so abruptly that he nearly ran Hermione down. She hopped backward to avoid treading on the hem of his robe and lifted her head to gaze up at him, her chin set with determination. Unlike Pansy, she had no intention of crying, but neither did she intend to let Dumbledore put her off again. 

"Miss Granger," he said, mildly, "can I do something for you?"

"Yes." She turned and fell into step beside him, grateful to be headed away from the Slytherins and the air of sullen, brooding malice that hung about them. "You can tell me the truth about Harry."

"Harry is fine." The half-smile he turned on her seemed to chide her for her lack of faith. "Do you suspect me of having sinister plans for him, Hermione?"

"I- I know you're planning _something_," she spluttered.

"I am planning to bring as many of my students through this crisis alive as I possibly can."

"Including Malfoy?"

"Including Mr. Malfoy."

"But what does Harry have to do with it?"

Dumbledore halted and turned to face her. Hermione abruptly realized that he had led her toward the door where a wide patch of empty floor gave them a modicum of privacy. His eyes were kind but grave, and the twinkle was completely gone from them.

"I told you once before that I cannot discuss this with you."

"But you have to!" she blurted out, then she blushed furiously. In a small, pleading voice she went on, "He'll only tell me later, anyway. And I helped him find Draco to begin with, so I'm as much a part of this as Harry is! Why can't _I_ do whatever it is you need to save Draco?"

"Is it Mr. Malfoy you want to help or Mr. Potter?"

Her blush deepened. "It's Harry."

"I will do nothing to put Harry at risk. You know that, Hermione."

"Any time you put him with Malfoy, you put him at risk. They _hate_ each other!"

"Then perhaps it is time that Harry and Draco worked out their differences."

"On the night the Death Eaters attack?!" Hermione squeaked in outrage. "With Malfoy's father probably leading the charge?!"

"Mr. Malfoy's deeds are not those of his son," Dumbledore reminded her, gently, "and even had Draco assaulted the wards himself in an attempt to aide his father, I could not let him die."

"But... but..." 

Hermione found herself utterly unequal to the task of explaining Harry's relationship with Malfoy to the Headmaster. She had thought that he, of all the adults at the school, would understand how great a strain it put on Harry to associate with the other boy. His feelings for Malfoy went far beyond dislike, even beyond hatred in a weird sort of way. It was as if the two boys were locked in some kind of eternal battle of wills, never free of each other, never victorious, never able to break the connection and simply walk away. Draco was Harry's own, personal Dark Mark, and when he called, Harry answered. Just like tonight.

"You are letting your imagination run away with you, Miss Granger." Hermione jumped, suddenly afraid that Dumbledore was reading her mind. "Try to get some rest, and in the morning, the world will look a deal brighter..."

"Headmaster!" Professor McGonagall shoved through the door and almost ran over to Dumbledore, paying no attention to Hermione. "Poppy needs you at once."

"Of course." 

Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a shriek and cried, "Harry!"

McGonagall looked at her, startled, and it seemed to take her a moment to recognize Hermione, so distracted was she by whatever crisis had brought her in search of Dumbledore. Finally her eyes sharpened and her mouth compressed into a tight line. "Don't be silly, Granger. Potter is fine."

The two professors headed for the door, and Hermione ran out on their heels. They were headed for Snape's office. She recognized the Potions classroom and the storage cupboard beyond it - the one where Snape kept his supply of boomslang skin - and knew that the office was only a few doors down from there. Dumbledore halted at the office door and waited for Hermione to catch up.

"What are you doing here, Granger?" McGonagall demanded.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and said, defiantly, "I want to see Harry."

McGonagall made a move for her wand, but Dumbledore lifted a hand to stop her. "Perhaps it is best if Harry has one of his friends with him."

"But Albus..."

"Miss Granger, before you come into this room, you must promise me that you will say nothing of what you see or hear. Nothing of Mr. Malfoy's injuries, nothing of Harry's choices, nothing of spells or charms or magic of any kind. Do you understand?"

"Can I... can I talk to Harry about it?"

"Of course, but to no one else. Not even Ronald Weasley."

Screwing up her courage, Hermione demanded, "Why?"

"Do not ask me that. Give me your word or return to the dungeon with your classmates."

"I give you my word."

With a nod, Dumbledore pushed open the door.

Harry awoke to the low hum of voices nearby. He felt a moment of disorientation when he realized that he was not in his bed or even in the Gryffindor tower, and he could not remember what had happened. Fumbling beside the bed, he felt cold, rough stone beneath his fingers and his glasses skittered away from his reaching hand. Then he caught them and pushed them up on his nose.

Now he could see that he lay on the floor of a dungeon room - Snape's office, he gathered, from the jars of pickled specimens staring balefully down at him - and he was not alone. Another mattress lay on the floor with his, and this one was surrounded by tall figures in wizard robes. In the flickering firelight, he recognized Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape and Madam Pomfrey. Snape moved to one side, and Harry caught a glimpse of the person lying on the other pallet. Then he remembered.

Sitting up abruptly, he called, "Professor?"

Four heads turned to stare at him, and a smaller figure in the robes of a student came scurrying out of the back corner to kneel beside his bed. It was Hermione. Her eyes were three times their normal size, and he got impression she'd been crying - or trying very hard not to.

"I'm very glad you're awake, Harry," Dumbledore said. He was crouching on the floor, one hand resting on Draco Malfoy's head while the other reached across the boy's still body to clasp his left wrist. The Headmaster's face looked strangely worn and old in the orange light.

"What's going on?" Harry asked.

"Madam Pomfrey has arranged a kind of hospital wing annex, down here in the dungeons, where all of the student who were injured in the attack can rest comfortably. We'll be moving you and Draco there in just a moment."

"Me?" Harry looked around at the faces of the teachers confronting him. They looked grim and tired and thoughtful, and he thought he detected a flash of worry in McGonagall's gimlet eye. "I feel fine. Great. I'm not even tired. I'll just go back to the big dungeon and find the other Gryffindors..."

Dumbledore rose to his feet with an ease that belied his grey beard and lined features. As he let go of Malfoy's arm, Harry got a quick look at it and felt his stomach turn over. The burns caused by the bracelet were blistered and raw, bloody in places, and Harry fancied he could catch a whiff of cooked flesh in the air.

"I would like to talk to you, Harry, alone," Dumbledore said. "Please take Mr. Malfoy to the infirmary, Severus. Miss Granger, why don't you go along to make sure Harry has a comfortable spot near the fireplace? We'll join you shortly."

Hermione looked as though she wanted to protest, but Dumbledore shot her a look from beneath his brows that sent her hurrying for the door. Snape crouched by the pallet to scoop Malfoy up in his arms, and Harry was shocked at how easily the Potions Master could lift him. Either Snape was much stronger than he looked, or Malfoy weighed almost nothing. The Slytherin boy looked more than ever like a discarded toy, lying brokenly in Snape's arms. Dumbledore held the door open for Snape and McGonagall. Madam Pomfrey stopped on the way out to mutter, "Do hurry, Headmaster," then she followed. When Dumbledore shut the door again, they were alone.

The Headmaster waved his wand at the large chair that stood behind Snape's desk. It flew over and landed with a clunk next to Harry's bed. As Dumbledore sat down in it, Harry pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, as much for protection from his fears as for warmth.

"Is this about Malfoy?" he asked.

Dumbledore smiled at him, and to Harry's dismay, it only made him look older and more drawn. "Yes, it is. You know that Mr. Malfoy is dying, don't you?" Harry nodded. "The blood you gave him helped, briefly, but there are remnants of dark spells about him that impede our efforts to heal him, and the summoning charm..."

"That silver bracelet?"

"Yes. It is very deeply rooted in his mind and body. It has grown to become a part of him, over the years that he carried it. Now it is trying to drag him back to his father, and it does not care how ill or weak he is. It will not rest until it reaches Lucius Malfoy. That charm is pulling all his strength into answering its master's call, draining him, and leaving him nothing with which to keep his own body alive."

"Is Mr. Malfoy trying to kill his son?"

"I doubt it. Most likely he has no idea that Draco is injured and cannot answer the summons."

"Why don't you just give Draco to Lucius Malfoy?" Harry asked.

"For many reasons, but the most important is that Draco has not asked to go. Until he does, I am duty bound to protect him from the Death Eaters, as I will all of the students at Hogwarts."

"You know he wants to go."

Dumbledore gave him a curious, measuring look. "Do I?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "What will you do? Turn off the charm?"

"I can't do that until Draco is stronger. Breaking the charm would have several consequences, some of them dire, and it would certainly endanger Draco's life. My hope is that, once he is strong enough to endure the process, we can remove it from his body without breaking it. He would not be free of its call, but it would no longer be able to hurt him the way it is now and he would be better able to resist it."

"If he wants to."

Dumbledore nodded. "If he wants to."

"You said that you couldn't heal him. That he's dying." Again, Dumbledore nodded. "How will you make him strong enough to let you remove the charm?"

"Ah. That's where you come in, Harry."

Harry felt his stomach drop through the floor. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

"Have you ever heard of a Blood Link?"

"No. Should I have?"

"I shouldn't think so. It's very advanced magic, well above sixth-year level."

"Oh, good," Harry said hollowly. "I thought I was sleeping in class again."

"You needn't be afraid, Harry. I wouldn't suggest anything that would harm you."

"I know. But you would suggest something that was hard and horrible and..." He sighed. "Just tell me what a Blood Link is, please, Professor."

"It is a tool used in times of critical need to channel power from one wizard to another. It can only be formed between wizards who have the same blood in their veins."

"So that's why you wanted my blood."

"Yes. When you gave your blood to Draco, you made it possible for us to form such a link between you, with your blood as the basis for the link and you in control of it."

Harry's head came up sharply. "I'd be in control?"

"It's a one-way channel, from you to Draco. A very strong link sometimes allows the emotions of the weaker partner to flow back across it, giving the stronger insight into how much power is needed and how to apply it, but most links are not that strong."

"I know I shouldn't ask this, but... what makes a strong link?"

"The combined power of the wizards involved and the amount of blood shared. It can be done with only a drop or two, but that creates a weak and temporary link."

"I gave Malfoy a whole pint."

"I think there is little doubt that you and Draco would form a very powerful link indeed," Dumbledore said gently. "Or that you would need it to accomplish what you must."

"Save his life."

"That, and free him from his father long enough to allow him to choose."

"Do you really think there's a chance he'd choose our side, Professor?"

"I don't know, but I believe that every witch and wizard is entitled to a free choice. Draco can't choose when his mind is overwhelmed by dark spells and summoning charms. You, Harry, have the strength of will to resist the charm and to fight the spells that still cling to him, allowing him to heal."

"I would... send him strength through the link and fight the summoning charm, and that's it?"

"That is a great deal."

"I wouldn't have Malfoy talking in my head or spying on my thoughts?"

Dumbledore smiled. "No. It is not a telepathic link. It operates below the level of conscious thought, where strength and weakness, fear and courage, love and hate are born. If you chose to do it, you could send more of yourself through the link to use your power more efficiently, but you would never be inside Draco's mind or he inside yours. And you would always have the choice to simply shut it off."

"I could break the link?"

"Not break it; block it. Only one of us who formed the link could sever it, but you could choose to withhold your power and shut off the flow of emotions either direction through it."

Licking his lips with nervousness, Harry finally asked the one overridingly important question that had been sitting like a lump of lead in his stomach all this time. "Why me?"

"Because you are strong and brave and not afraid to use your power when it is called for. But most importantly, because you always listen to your heart, Harry. It is your greatest strength. And your heart will not allow Draco Malfoy to die, no matter how much you think you hate him, if you can prevent it." 

Harry didn't know what to say in answer to this. He knew what he _ought_ to say, but he couldn't quite make his mouth form the words. Professor Dumbledore seemed so sure of his agreement, not to mention his ability to set aside years of hatred and bitterness to give his strength - no, give _himself_ - to the most loathsome human being he had ever met.

That thought gave Harry pause. Did he really think that Draco was the most loathsome person he'd ever met? If he told himself the strict truth, he would have to say no. Lucius Malfoy was much worse. And Cornelius Fudge was a coward, which was much worse than a sneaky rat in Harry's book. Then, of course, there were the Dursleys. They were stupid _and_ cowardly. Draco wasn't stupid or cowardly, though he was devious and mean and hateful... All in all, Harry knew quite a few people who ranked below Draco in his esteem. In fact, he could think of several for whom he would not even consider doing anything like this Blood Link. 

Another uncomfortable truth was that part of him _wanted_ to form this link, and not just because Dumbledore was looking at him with sad, understanding, hopeful eyes that made his skin crawl with potential guilt. Even if Dumbledore didn't care one way or another, Harry would be tempted. He didn't feel sorry for Draco and didn't figure Draco would want his sympathy if he had it, but he did understand how important it was to choose for yourself, with no one lying to you, manipulating you, or bullying you. And if Harry could give that to Malfoy, he figured he would have done one really, truly unselfish thing in his life, no matter what choice Malfoy made in the end. It was tempting. It was also terrifying.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Harry lifted his eyes to meet Dumbledore's. "I asked you before if you thought this was best."

"And I told you that I did."

"Were you... were you talking about all of it?"

"Yes, Harry, I was."

Harry nodded slowly, tiredly. "Then I'll do it."

He found Hermione waiting for him in the new infirmary. It was another dank, grey, cold dungeon room that someone had tried in vain to make comfortable and reassuring. Beds taken from the hospital wing lined the stone walls on either side, and a fire burned merrily on the hearth at the far end. All the candles had shades over them to soften the light, and white fabric screens separated most of the beds. Harry counted more than twenty children lying in them before he stopped looking. It depressed him to see so many injured students.

Hermione had indeed saved him a bed near the fire, behind a large screen that was pulled to completely hide him from curious eyes. Unfortunately, Malfoy shared his private spot, lying very still and very white in the bed next to his. Harry could not help wishing that Draco would wake up and throw a couple of insults or a nasty curse at him, just for the sake of normalcy. A quiet Malfoy was a creepy Malfoy. 

Hermione waited until Madam Pomfrey had left him alone to settle in, then she flew around the screen and over to his bed, chattering breathlessly.

"Oh, Harry! I'm so glad you've come! I meant to tell you before that I heard the professors talking while you were asleep and there's a lot about this Blood Link that I'll bet Dumbledore didn't tell you!"

"Hermione..."

"Snape and McGonagall don't want you to do it! They argued with Dumbledore and McGonagall said one of the teachers ought to be the one but Dumbledore wouldn't allow it because he needs them all to maintain the wards which are growing terribly weak with the Death Eaters so close. But McGonagall is afraid that Voldemort will get you through the summoning charm. Snape's afraid you'll go crazy - or crazier than you already are by his standards - and try to murder Malfoy or something ridiculous like that... I couldn't really understand what he was on about... Only Harry, you mustn't do it! I mean it! It's terribly dangerous and it will link you to Malfoy in the most _intimate_ way, and we are talking about Malfoy here. I mean... _Malfoy!_"

"Hermione, do shut up!" She clamped her mouth shut, her face flushed. "I know all about it. Dumbledore told me."

"He wants you to do it, doesn't he?"

"Uh-huh."

"But Harry, you _can't!_"

"I've already agreed."

"_What?!_"

"Don't scream at me like that! You'll wake up Malfoy."

"Good. Then they'll all see that he's perfectly fine and leave you alone!"

Harry cast a doubtful glance at the boy in the next bed and thought, privately, that if he were any farther from 'perfectly fine,' he'd be decomposing. 

"I'm going to get Ron," Hermione threatened, darkly. "He'll talk some sense into you."

"No! Please, Hermione, don't tell him. He... won't understand."

"_I_ don't understand."

"Yes, you do." Harry stared glumly at Draco's pale, purple-shadowed face, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten viciously. "You knew I'd do it."

"Oh... _honestly!_"

The disgust in her voice made Harry smile, and he knew before he looked at her what he would see. Sure enough, she was standing with her hands planted on her hips, her eyes narrowed threateningly, and her mouth all crooked as she struggled to say something that tasted really bad.

"Fine. So you're going to hook yourself up to Draco Malfoy like a... a... petrol pump and give him all your power. What will you do when he takes what you give him and heads off to join Voldemort? Can you live with that?"

He thought about the choice that Draco still faced - the free choice - and nodded slowly. "If that's what he wants."

Hermione sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, her gaze following Harry's to the comatose Draco. "Okay. But if you start talking like him, I'll pretend I don't know you."

Harry chuckled. "No you won't. You'll look at me with those big, sad eyes and say, 'Oh, Harrry!'"

She shook her head in exasperation. "Oh, Harry."

They stayed sitting together, holding hands for comfort, until the murmur of adult voices in the room warned them that their time was up. Harry climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin, suddenly feeling as though he were about to have his appendix removed or something. He expected to see a Muggle doctor with a huge needle and a tray full of chrome knives. Instead, he saw Professors Dumbledore and Snape, with Madam Pomfrey hovering behind them, all holding their wands.

Harry stared up at Dumbledore, his mouth gone suddenly dry. "I guess it's time."

Dumbledore nodded. "I want you to close your eyes, Harry, and try to relax."

"It would be easier if I were unconscious, like Malfoy."

"Relax."

So Harry tried. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and tried to imagine that he was soaring over the Quidditch field on his Firebolt, with the wind in his hair and the evening mist blurring his glasses. It was beautiful, exciting, euphoric, and he never wanted it to end...

Then something reached into his chest and grabbed hold of his heart.

**__**

To be continued...


	3. Blood of the Lion, Heart of the Snake

****

Chapter 3: _Blood of the Lion, Heart of the Snake_

"Breathe, Harry." The voice came from just beside his ear, warm and reassuring. "You mustn't forget to breathe."

Harry wanted to shout at Dumbledore that it was impossible to breathe with a giant sitting on his chest, but he did not have the spare oxygen for shouting. Instead, he struggled to pull in a breath against the crushing pressure that gripped heart and lungs. It worked, just barely, and he felt his heart give a spasmodic beat.

"You're doing fine, Harry," Dumbledore said, his words blurred by the ringing in Harry's ears.

His heart was lurching against his ribs with every beat, and it hurt something awful. He could breathe all right, but it didn't feel as though the air was getting into his own bloodstream. He felt cold and tingly, and his hands ached. In fact, all of him ached. Why wasn't it working? Why was his heart straining so hard to pump his blood and getting nowhere?

"All right, Severus," Dumbledore said, "now."

There was a sudden rush of warmth through Harry's body, followed by a terrible chill and a sense of urgency that was painful in its intensity. Harry gasped, and his eyes flew open. He saw Dumbledore bending over him, frowning in concentration.

"Professor!" He tried to sit up against the weight of Dumbledore's hand, and when he could not, the urgency in him blossomed into panic. "Let me go!"

"Calm down, Harry."

"I have to go! I have to..."

"A little less, I think, Severus."

Abruptly, the panic subsided, and Harry felt warmth steal back into his limbs. He still felt a frantic need to jump down from the bed and bolt out of the room - to where, he had no idea - but it no longer hurt to resist it. He lay back on his pillow, breathing hard, and fixed wide, doubtful eyes on Dumbledore's face.

"Is that better?" the old wizard asked.

Harry nodded uncertainly. "What happened?"

"Professor Snape opened the link. You're feeling the pull of the summoning charm."

Harry licked his lips nervously, unsure what to say or what to ask first. His mind whirled with questions and his stomach clenched with fear. 

"Can you feel the link?" Dumbledore asked him.

"I don't know. It hurts."

"That's the summons. Try to ignore it and concentrate on what your own body is doing. Your heart, your blood, your strength. Feel them, Harry. Reach for them. Find the link."

Hesitantly, he closed his eyes and tried to focus. The call of the summoning charm was a constant ache within him, distracting and disturbing, but he managed to push it down in his awareness until it lay, like the pain of a bad tooth, in the very back of his mind. Then he tentatively reached out to find the link itself. 

It came from his heart. He knew that instinctively. He could feel a difference in the way his heart was beating - more slowly and more forcefully - as it pumped his lifeblood and his power out through the walls of his body toward the dying boy who needed them so desperately. When he turned his thoughts in that direction, he found it instantly. A thick, gleaming, blood-red stream flowing out of his chest.

"I see it," he murmured. "It's beautiful." He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Is it helping?"

Snape answered him, his voice sounding flatter and less scornful than usual. "It's too soon to tell. I have the link closed most of the way, so little power is getting through."

"When will you open it?"

"When you learn how to control it yourself."

"This is the most delicate part of the linking, and it depends on you, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Are you ready?"

Harry nodded.

"Good. Now concentrate."

They spent the next few minutes teaching Harry how to envision the Blood Link and how to control the flow of power through it. He found that if he pictured his mind like a fist, closing tight about the glittering stream, he could shut it off completely. But when he did that, his chest hurt and his heart pounded unpleasantly in his ears, as if all the healing strength meant for Malfoy were backing up in his own body and threatening to burst the fragile shell of his ribcage. When he opened the imaginary fist, power flowed outward through the link again and the poisonous call of the summons flowed in. 

The summons was not the only alien thing slopping into Harry's mind. The emotions he got from the unconscious Malfoy were formless and confused, nothing more than a wash of dread across his thoughts and easily ignored, but there was something more sinister that came with them. He found himself shivering with an unnatural cold that had nothing to do with how many blankets covered him. When he paid close attention to the feeling, he detected a clinging foulness to it that he recognized as Dark magic. He'd felt it before and there could be no mistaking it.

Harry quickly mastered the art of controlling the link, but it took him longer to find a balance that allowed him to tolerate both the summoning charm and the clammy touch of the Dark spells, while sending Malfoy enough of his own power to be useful. Snape kept urging him to open the link farther, and Dumbledore cautioned him to conserve his strength. Harry did his best to obey both of them.

When Dumbledore was at last satisfied with the balance of energies between the two boys, he lifted his hand from Harry's forehead and moved into the space between the beds. Harry did not open his eyes. He felt too drained and, at the same time, too utterly fascinated by what was happening inside him to think of anything else. He could hear Dumbledore and Snape talking, with Madam Pomfrey inserting an occasional remark, but he did not bother to listen closely. All his attention was focused on the warm, living thing that coursed out of his body and into Draco's.

Suddenly, Dumbledore spoke directly to him, startling him out of his reverie. "Harry? How do you feel?"

He opened his eyes and turned to find Dumbledore beside him. "Fine. Weird, but fine."

The Headmaster smiled. "That sounds about right." 

Dumbledore stepped away, and Harry found himself staring across the space between the beds at Malfoy. The other boy had not moved. His face was as ghastly, his eyes as sunken and his lips as bruised and bloodstained as ever, yet it seemed to Harry as if he were touched by a faint, golden shimmer. A hint of life that had not been there before. Maybe it was his own imagination, or maybe it was the effect of the Blood Link on Malfoy. Either way, Harry found that he could not take his eyes off of the still face beside him.

"Are you listening, Harry?" Harry gave Dumbledore a startled glance, wondering what the old wizard had said to him that he hadn't heard.

"Yes, Professor."

"This is extremely important."

"I'm listening."

Dumbledore sat down on the edge of Harry's bed, fixing him with stern, measuring eyes. "I'm very proud of you for doing this, and I have every confidence that you will behave responsibly. But Harry, I cannot impress upon you enough how powerful and potentially dangerous a thing this Blood Link is."

"I understand."

"No, you don't. Not yet. But as you experiment with it you will, and I must caution you to be very, very careful what you do."

"I thought I was supposed to heal Malfoy." As he spoke, his eyes drifted back to the other boy's face.

"Yes, but that is _all_ you are supposed to do." Dumbledore waited for Harry to look at him again, and when he did not, he said, sharply, "Mr. Potter."

Harry's eyes snapped back to his face.

"When you learn to use the link fully, you will find yourself in closer contact with Mr. Malfoy than you have ever been with another human being. You will find yourself with the power to heal his body, shield him from pain, read his emotions - a heady kind of power, especially for someone as young and passionate as you are, Harry."

"I won't hurt him, Professor. I swear I won't."

"Not deliberately, but you may be tempted to overstep your bounds."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it is not your place to 'fix' Mr. Malfoy or to sway his feelings in any way. He must be free to choose, Harry. Free of Voldemort _and_ free of us."

Once again, Harry turned to look at Malfoy, and this time Dumbledore did not draw his eyes away. Harry watched the shallow rise and fall of the other boy's chest as he breathed, the only sign of life in him, and remembered the strange thrill that had gone through him when he saw the shimmer of his own power in Draco's face. "I think I understand."

"I hope so, Mr. Potter." Dumbledore reached up to clasp his shoulder for a moment, then he rose wearily to his feet. "I hope so."

They left him with strict instructions to stay in bed, rest, and call Madam Pomfrey if he needed anything. Harry did not think he could possibly sleep under the circumstances, but Madam Pomfrey gave him a frothy, chocolate-flavored potion that made his brain go fuzzy and his toes go warm. After that, sleep looked pretty good in spite of all the excitement over Blood Links and Death Eater attacks. He was drifting in and out of a light doze, feeling very comfortable and untroubled, when the murmur of voices approaching brought him fully awake.

"Dumbledore told us he couldn't leave," the first voice whispered. It sounded like Hermione.

"I know, but what if Malfoy is awake?" hissed the second. That was definitely Ron.

"Do you want to see Harry, or not?"

"Of course I do, but not with that weasel around!"

Harry pushed himself up on one elbow and grinned at the screen that hid him from his squabbling friends. "Hallo, Ron."

The whispers broke off and a familiar, flaming red head poked around the screen. "Hallo, Harry." Ron's smile looked more than a bit forced, and his eyes were very large in his pale, dirt-smudged face. "You want some company?"

"Do go on, Ron," Hermione said, giving him a nudge from behind.

"Hey! Watch where you put those hands!" Ron protested.

"Oh, honestly." 

Hermione flounced up to Harry's bed, rolling her eyes at Ron's outburst. Ron followed a little more slowly, and his eyes strayed with a kind of morbid fascination to where Malfoy lay in the other bed. When he finally looked at Harry, he wore a troubled frown.

"How're you feeling?" he asked.

"Okay." Harry sat up, unconsciously rubbing his chest as he did so. "Kind of lightheaded, but okay. Does Dumbledore know you're here?"

"He said we could come, as long as we didn't tire you out. Is it true, Harry? Did you really let them..." His eyes strayed to Malfoy's sleeping face again, and he shuddered. "...do that Blood thing with Malfoy?"

Harry sighed and shoved at his glasses, trying to get them settled on his nose so he could focus properly. They tilted drunkenly, and Ron's face went even more blurry. "I guess Hermione told you about it."

"It was Dumbledore, really," Hermione said.

"What I want to know is why _you_ didn't tell me about it! _And_ why you did such a brilliantly stupid thing in the first place!"

"Shh," Hermione cautioned, "you'll wake up Malfoy. Harry, give me those glasses," she said, as she watched him shove at them again. "You fell asleep in them, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Harry handed them to her with a sheepish grin, glad of a moment's distraction from Ron and his outraged feelings. "I sort of forgot I had them on."

Ron shot the unconscious Slytherin a look of loathing and sidled a bit closer to Harry's bed. "Will you forget about the glasses and stick to the real problem?"

"There is no problem," Harry said. 

"No problem? No_ problem?!_"

"Well, besides the Death Eaters and the fact that we can't leave the dungeons and all that. I mean, there's no problem with Malfoy. He's mostly dead, Ron. He can't do anything to me."

"Harry, he's a Slytherin. And he's a Malfoy! He can _always_ do something to you!"

"I know who he is," Harry said, shortly. He took his repaired glasses back from Hermione and put them on, blinking to clear his vision. "Can we talk about something else?"

"I told you not to nag him about it, Ron," Hermione scolded. "I told you he wouldn't want to..."

"Sure, you told me all kinds of things, too late to be any use! If you and Dumbledore had let me in on it sooner, I might have stopped Harry from making a complete prat of himself and getting into even more trouble than usual."

"Dumbledore made me promise not to tell anyone, and Harry didn't want you to know..."

Hermione broke off in embarrassment, as Ron goggled at her, his mouth hanging open. Harry saw the explosion coming and hissed, fiercely, "Will both of you just give it a rest?"

Two pairs of eyes turned on him, full of reproach.

"I asked Hermione not to tell you, Ron, because I knew you'd behave exactly like this. And she's right. I don't want to argue about it."

Ron shut his mouth with a snap. "You knew I'd talk you out of it."

"I knew you'd try." Harry heaved a sigh and let his shoulders slump wearily. "I knew you wouldn't like it, but I honestly didn't have a choice, and I didn't want to have this fight before it was done. I'm sorry, Ron. Okay?"

"Did you really have to? Did Dumbledore bully you into it?"

A smile twitched at Harry's lips. "Professor Dumbledore doesn't bully people."

"No. He just looks at you from over the top of his glasses, with that twinkle in his eyes, and says he _knows_ he can rely on you to do the right thing..."

"And then he tells you that it's entirely up to you..."

"And he'll understand if you don't feel equal to it..."

"And you end up doing exactly what he wants!" Harry laughed then shot his friend a pleading look and asked, "You do understand, don't you?"

"Well... I suppose." Ron ducked his head to avoid Harry's eyes, his ears turning a telltale shade of pink. "I suppose I would have done it, too, if Dumbledore had asked me." _Which he wouldn't,_ was the unspoken ending to that sentence, _because I'm not Harry Potter and no one ever asks me to do things like this_.

Harry knew very well what the other boy was thinking but politely pretended that he didn't. "Thanks, Ron."

Hermione beamed at them, looking from one to the other with a look of smug approval that seemed to imply she had made peace between them singlehandedly. "Do you really feel all right, Harry?"

"Yeah, I do. It's strange. I can feel the link working, and it makes me tired, but it also makes me feel kind of... awake. Excited. Like my brain is busy doing things it's never had to do before and enjoying it."

Ron shook his head lugubriously. "I can't believe Draco Malfoy gets to siphon off your wizarding power. How weird is that? Harry Potter draining himself dry to save that dragon spawn over there."

"Don't let Hagrid hear you call him that. He might try to adopt him."

Ron laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed, his body relaxing as the tension finally left him. "Hagrid might teach him some manners."

"So what do you have to do now, Harry?" Hermione asked, as she perched on the bed next to Ron.

Harry's hand moved to rub his chest again, and he shrugged. He found it impossible to explain to his friends the task Dumbledore had set him. How could they grasp the delicate balance of power and pain flowing through the link between him and Malfoy, or the traces of Dark spells that now eddied through his own body? How could they understand what Harry must do when he found the courage to send his own awareness, the strength of his own will and emotion, through the link to help his unguided magic do its healing? He only half understood it himself, and he had the Blood Link anchored in his own chest, binding his body and spirit to another person.

"Just wait," he answered, lamely, "and give Malfoy what help I can."

Ron cast another dubious glance at the still body in the other bed but nobly refrained from comment. 

"What's going on with the Death Eaters?" Harry asked, both because he wanted to distract them and because he had heard nothing since giving Malfoy the blood transfusion last night. Or he assumed it was last night. There were no clocks or windows in the dungeon, and his own watch was lying beside his bed in the Gryffindor tower.

"They haven't attacked again," Hermione said, "but McGonagall says they're still out there. They've surrounded the school grounds, weakening the outer wards with their presence and forcing Dumbledore to use all his power to keep them out."

"We still can't go into the upper castle?"

"Only for short times to fetch things we need, and with teachers for protection. The Headmaster sent a group of seventh-year students with Flitwick to the Owlery to see if any of the owls survived."

Harry felt a shock of fear go through him. He had not even thought of Hedwig 'til now, but he suddenly, desperately hoped that she had escaped. "Did they?"

"Yes, lots. It looks like most of them were out hunting when the Death Eaters struck. Either that, or they sensed trouble and got away in time. The ones who stayed in the Owlery were lucky, just like the students who were inside. Nothing much got through the castle walls." Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and added, "No one mentioned Hedwig, but I'm sure she's all right."

Harry nodded mutely.

"I haven't found Crookshanks, but I'm not worried. He's probably running around the castle, catching all the mice and rats that got loose in the confusion and enjoying himself immensely."

"There are going to be a lot of angry students when this is over," Ron said, dryly.

Hermione put on her superior face and said, "I should hope they'll have more important things to worry about than their pets."

"You only say that because _your_ pet is the one doing the eating."

She flushed and pressed her lips together. "He didn't eat your rat, Ron. Get over it already."

Ron laughed shortly. "Don't I just wish he had! Think how much trouble it would have saved us if Wormtail had ended up as Crookshanks' lunch!"

"Have the teachers let anything interesting slip?" Harry asked, cutting off their digression before it could wander too far from the subject at hand. "Like why the Death Eaters attacked in the first place, or how Dumbledore plans to get rid of them?"

Hermione shook her head glumly. "They've all been as close as oysters. Flitwick got over-excited and said something about bringing in Ministry wizards to strengthen the wards, but I don't see how that can happen with Fudge in charge. And I... I did hear Dumbledore tell the Slytherins that they could send owls to their parents. He says he'll let any student go who wants to and whose parents give them permission."

"Well, that's all right then," Ron said brightly. "Dumbledore will send Malfoy home to play with Daddy and Death Eaters, and you won't have to worry about him anymore."

Harry felt a sudden, irrational flare of anger inside him, and he turned on Ron fiercely. "Just shut up about Malfoy, okay? You don't know what you're talking about!"

Ron blinked at him, his face blank with shock, but he never got a chance to respond. A soft noise from the boy sleeping in the other bed cut off their conversation and turned all eyes on Malfoy. Harry's anger dissolved into pain, and he clutched at his chest, breathing hard.

"Harry?" Hermione touched his arm gently, making him flinch. "What's wrong?"

"I... I think you'd better go."

"What is it?"

"I think he's waking up, and it would be better if you aren't here."

"We're not going to leave you alone with Malfoy," Ron insisted, stoutly.

Harry turned pleading eyes on Hermione and whispered, "You understand, don't you? Just get him out of here, please."

"Come on, Ron."

"No!"

"Yes." Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled him roughly off the bed. "Let's go find Madam Pomfrey. She should know that Malfoy is waking up."

Harry watched through pain-blurred eyes as Hermione bullied a protesting Ron around the screen and out of earshot. Then he slid off the bed and padded over to where Malfoy lay.

The other boy was still unconscious, but Harry could tell by the change in the emotions coming through the link to him that he wouldn't be for long. The formless dread that had colored Malfoy's sleep all this time was solidifying, growing stronger, taking shape in the pit of Harry's stomach where it writhed sickeningly. Lances of pain went through him, but it was not physical pain. That Harry could control. This pain was born of the summoning charm's siren call and the clinging shadows of the spells that spread poison through Malfoy's mind, and it hurt like nothing he had ever experienced before.

Harry did not dare touch Malfoy, though he suspected that he would find the link easier to manage if he did. Malfoy stirred and mumbled something, then he coughed, and a spattering of fresh blood showed on his lips. Harry gazed down at him, chewing his lip nervously, wondering what on earth Dumbledore expected him to do. Malfoy coughed again, and the tearing sound vibrated horribly through Harry's frame, making him grimace in pain.

On a desperate impulse, Harry loosened his mental grip on the link and sent a rush of power coursing through it. He could see the telltale golden flicker over Malfoy's skin as the power flowed into him, and he felt the boy's presence within him, in his heart and blood, strengthen. He also felt the summoning charm take him in a vicious, searing grip, sinking molten talons into his flesh to drag him away.

__

Stop it! Harry ordered sharply, hurling the words at the link and the demon creature shrieking at the other end of it. _I'm not going anywhere!_

To his surprise, the summons weakened. Harry blinked down at Malfoy in surprise, wondering how he had managed that and what he could do with this accidental discovery. Maybe Dumbledore was mistaken, and Harry could actually talk to Malfoy through the link. Or maybe the words he formed in his head went through the link as something else - something unspoken but meaningful. Screwing his face up in concentration, he tried again. 

__

Wake up, Malfoy, he thought, willing his words to reach the other boy. _Come on, wake up. I'm tired of sitting here by myself, staring at your ugly face. Wake up and talk to me._ They weren't exactly healing or comforting thoughts, but they were the best Harry could do on short notice. As much as he wanted to help Malfoy, Harry found it difficult to look at his familiar face - a face he had viewed with hostility and loathing for six long years - and think of anything reassuring to say. _Too scared to try, Malfoy? Too scared of what your father and his friends are doing to watch? I always knew you were a coward..._

Harry gave a startled "Eeep!" as Malfoy's eyes suddenly flicked open and stared up at him. They were glazed with pain and illness, black pupils so big they nearly swallowed up the grey, but they were alert. Awake. And from the prickle of wariness Harry felt over his own skin, he knew that they recognized him.

"Potter," Malfoy whispered, his voice a rough croak.

Harry tried to answer neutrally and to let none of his triumph or excitement show. "Hallo, Malfoy."

If Harry expected a polite greeting in return, he was doomed to disappointment. Malfoy looked at him steadily, showing no reaction to his presence, then asked in that odd, rough voice that sounded so alien coming from him, "Where are we? What happened?"

"We're in the Hogwarts dungeons, in a makeshift infirmary, and too much has happened for me to explain it all at once."

Malfoy's gaze slid away from his face to wander up to the distant, shadowed ceiling then over to the fire. His expression did not change, though Harry could feel the fear and confusion boiling up in him. It was a very strange experience to look at Malfoy's cold face and realize how much fear lived behind it. 

"You don't look so good," Harry said truthfully. "Do you want me to get Madam Pomfrey?"

Draco's face contorted with pain, and he lifted his right hand to cover his eyes. "I want out of here. I have to go home."

"You can't." Of their own volition, Harry's hands lifted to rest on the edge of the mattress. "You're too sick."

Malfoy took a ragged breath and coughed, sending a sympathetic pang through Harry's chest. Then he stirred restlessly, and Harry knew that he was feeling the pull of the charm. "I have to go. My father's waiting for me." Mustering a pale imitation of his usual sneer, he added, "Some of us have families that want us, Potter."

Harry did not bother to respond. He knew Malfoy was baiting him out of habit and a need to distract himself from the terrible battle raging in his own body, and he knew that the words meant nothing. 

Harry's fingers twitched, wanting to touch Draco's shoulder. He couldn't explain his sudden need for contact, and he was having trouble fighting it. But he knew that any such gesture on his part would get him blasted into next week with Malfoy's nastiest hex. He also knew better than to say anything soothing, no matter how immediate and inescapable the other boy's pain was to him. Unless or until Dumbledore told Malfoy about the Blood Link, Harry had to pretend that he was just another patient in Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing annex, killing time by making conversation with his worst enemy.

"How did I end up here?" Draco whispered, more to himself than to Harry. "I was leaving... I was..."

"Looking for your father?" Harry offered, finishing Draco's thought and making the other boy drop his hand to stare at him. The glazed, feverish look in those wintry eyes started the fear twisting in Harry's stomach again, but this time, it was all his own. "That's what you were doing out there, wasn't it? Trying to find your father?"

Draco lifted his hand again to cover his eyes. "Go away, Potter. You make my head hurt."

"I'll fetch Madam Pomfrey," he said, as much to put some distance between himself and Malfoy as from any hope that the nurse could do something for him. But as he started away from the bed, toward the screen and the rest of the ward, Professor Dumbledore stepped around it and blocked his way.

"You should be in bed, Mr. Potter. Was there something you needed?"

Harry eyed the Headmaster warily, wondering how much he had overheard. "Malfoy has a headache, Professor. I thought maybe Madam Pomfrey..."

"Madam Pomfrey is bringing him a nice potion for that. Watermelon, I believe." Dumbledore smiled guilelessly at Harry and mused, "I do think the kiwi-lime was her best, though the students seem to prefer chocolate as a general rule. Back to bed, Mr. Potter, before your feet freeze to the floor. These dungeons are impossible to keep warm."

Obediently, Harry climbed onto his bed and crawled under the blankets. Dumbledore approached Malfoy from the other side, leaving Harry a clear view of both the wizard and the injured boy, which Harry was quite sure was no accident.

"I'm delighted to see you awake, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling at Draco over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. He reached up to clasp Draco's shoulder. "We were growing concerned. I do hope you're feeling better."

"Better than what?" Malfoy muttered sourly.

A smile of understanding twitched at the Headmaster's lips. "Better than dead, which is what you very nearly were, my boy."

Malfoy thought about this for a moment, then answered with a good deal less hostility than before, "I feel like a castle fell on me."

"Fortunately for all of us, the castle is still standing. You, on the other hand, will not be doing any standing, walking, arguing or leaving for quite some time."

The grey eyes widened in alarm. "But... I have to go. My father sent for me!"

"And when you are well enough, if you still wish to go to him, you may. But for the time being, you cannot leave this bed much less the school grounds."

"What happened to me?" Draco whispered, his glazed eyes fixed on Dumbledore's face and a note of panic creeping into his voice. "How did I get here? I was... I was trying to get out, to find my father..."

"Yes, I know you were." Dumbledore reached over to clasp Draco's left wrist, just above the silver bracelet and the wicked swath of burns around it. "He's calling you now, isn't he?"

Malfoy shuddered and pulled away from Dumbledore, curling up on his side with his face half hidden in the pillow.

"Try to rest, Draco. Try to close your mind to the summons, for now. We'll do our best to help you, but we can't silence it completely without breaking the charm, and that..."

"_No!_" Malfoy's cry tore through the air like a dull blade, making the hairs on the back of Harry's neck rise, and suddenly Harry understood why his voice was so rough. He'd screamed it raw. "_I don't want your help!_ _I want to go home!_"

Dumbledore shot Harry a swift glance as he bent over Malfoy's huddled body. "I won't break the charm without your permission, Draco. I promise you that."

"Let me go... _Let me go! You can't keep me here!_"

Harry hopped out of his own bed and approached the other one cautiously, to the sound of Draco's frantic cries. As he drew nearer, he saw that Draco's lips were dark with blood and his eyes bright with unshed tears. Once again, his hand moved of its own volition, reaching to touch the other boy, and this time he did not stop it. His fingers closed lightly around Malfoy's wrist.

Emotion hit him with the force of a speeding freight train, and his mind staggered under the impact. Unguarded, the Blood Link snapped wide open, and Harry was suddenly floundering under the full weight of Malfoy's terror. It gibbered and shrieked, spinning his thoughts into sickening chaos, while his own power surged up to meet its assault. Gold sparks swam before his eyes and a musical humming filled his ears. He could no longer feel his own feet or hands, and the sound of Draco's hysterical screaming seemed to come from a very long way off. His world had narrowed down to the ebb and flow of the forces within him, battling for control of his will and the link that bound him to Malfoy. 

He was master of his own mind, he told himself, and stronger than any fear. He had faced the Dark Lord himself when he rose from the dead. He had walked with the shades of his murdered parents. He had withstood Voldemort's Imperius Curse. No spell, no matter how cruel or poisonous, could defeat him. He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and he was not afraid. He was _not afraid_.

When he blinked his eyes back into focus at last, Harry found Dumbledore gazing at him thoughtfully. Power still flashed and glittered behind his eyes, blurring his vision and throwing a kind of halo of gold sparks around Dumbledore's white head, and ran smoothly through the Blood Link. Malfoy lay still, curled on his side, his long hair tumbled over his face, his breath coming slowly and evenly. Harry could not explain how, but he knew that Draco was asleep.

It took him a moment to find his voice, then he licked his lips and asked, nervously, "What did I do?"

"Unless I am very much mistaken, you passed through the link into Mr. Malfoy to protect him."

Harry swallowed convulsively. "I didn't mean to. I... I thought it was all happening in my own head."

"When the link is so strong and the need so great, it is sometimes hard to find the boundaries between one spirit and another." Dumbledore eyed him narrowly and added, his voice soft but compelling, "Now you know what kind of fear and pain live inside Mr. Malfoy."

Harry felt faintly nauseated at the thought of blundering around in Malfoy's head. Completely aside from the fact that Malfoy's head was not a place he wanted to be, there was the matter of what kind of damage he could have done. He had no business messing about, uninvited, with another wizard's mind. 

Harry's feelings must have shown in his face, because Dumbledore smiled kindly at him and leaned over to pat his shoulder. "Don't dwell on it, Harry. You did very well, considering that you've only had the link for a few hours and stumbled upon this skill by accident. Do you begin to see why I urged you to caution?"

He nodded mutely.

"Lie down then and get some sleep."

"That's all I do anymore. Sleep."

"Good. I know it feels as if you could keep this up forever, but the euphoria that comes with using your power will not help you to replace it when you have burned yourself out. You must rest twice as much, because you are working twice as hard."

Harry obediently got into bed again and settled back against his pillow. He felt warm and fuzzy, just like he had after drinking Madam Pomfrey's potion, and he spoke without thinking. "Like a pregnant woman... eating for two."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I wouldn't use that analogy around your classmates, if I were you."

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"He really wants to go, doesn't he?"

The Headmaster did not have to ask whom he meant. "Perhaps."

"I thought... I hoped he'd choose to stay, if he knew it was safe. But all he wants is to leave."

"For now, yes. But we've only just begun, Harry. Don't give up hope so soon."

Harry's eyes tracked sleepily over to where Draco lay in a tumble of loose hair and rumpled blankets. His left hand hung over the side of the bed, the summoning charm glinting evilly in the firelight and the wicked burns standing out redly on his pale skin.

"I don't want him to go," Harry murmured, and he knew it was the truth.

**__**

To be continued...


	4. Under Siege

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Author's Note: My sincere thanks to all of you who've read my story so far! I appreciate all your comments and thank you for the time you've taken to review or write to me. I do have one teeny favor to ask you all... 

I do not belong to any HP lists, message boards or online groups, and this is my first HP fic. This means I have no readership established or contacts in the fandom. So I ask you, please, if you're enjoying the story and know of someone else who might like it, pass the link along to them. I'd be eternally grateful! 

Enjoy! -- CC

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****

Chapter 4: _Under Siege_

Professor Dumbledore sat behind his desk, scanning a piece of parchment with shuttered, expressionless eyes and twiddling his wand between his fingers. A small stack of scrolls rested at his elbow, as yet unread, and a curious brass lamp threw golden light over the black ink strokes on the parchment before him. On a stand beside the desk, Fawkes the Phoenix sat preening his scarlet feathers.

The room Dumbledore occupied had been a broom closet, up until yesterday. He might have chosen any number of dungeon chambers to appropriate for his emergency office, but he had selected one of Filch's closets out of a kind-hearted impulse. Poor Filch was feeling useless in the current crisis, being without magic of his own, and Dumbledore's earnest assurance that his miserable nook full of brooms, mops and buckets was absolutely essential to the smooth running of the school had cheered him immensely. It had also given him something else to complain about - essential for his mental health. 

So Dumbledore had moved into the closet - after expanding it a good deal and adding a few necessaries - summoned his desk, produced a couple of mismatched armchairs with crooked legs, and brought Fawkes down for company. The entire effect was quite satisfactory - comfortable, reassuring, but with an air of hurried impermanence to it that would tell the careful observer that the Headmaster of Hogwarts had no intention of staying in a broom closet for long.

An enormous ginger cat leapt lightly onto the desk and threaded a path through the objects littering its top. Dumbledore glanced up, smiling, and suddenly his eyes were no longer distant or cold. They gleamed with laughter, as the cat stretched out between the lamp and the inkwell and dropped a half-chewed rat onto the desktop between its paws. 

"And who do we have here, Master Crookshanks? An unfortunate friend, or a nameless denizen of the dungeons?" Dumbledore asked, conversationally. Crookshanks gave him an enigmatic stare and bit down on a slender bone. "You really ought to return to Miss Granger. She will be worried about you."

Crookshanks treated this observation with contempt, and even Fawkes seemed to think it frivolous. The bird rustled his gorgeous plumage and turned a black, unblinking eye on the Headmaster. Dumbledore chuckled and turned back to his work, leaving the cat to finish his snack without further editorial comment.

A quick rap on the door brought Dumbledore's head up again. 

"Come in!" he called, and the door opened to admit Professor McGonagall. She looked worn and tired, with a few locks of hair straggling from her bun and the lines in her face cut deeper than usual by strain. 

"We've finished with the second sweep of the dungeons, Albus," she said. "Everything is secure, but Severus confirms that there are four students missing."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Dumbledore rose graciously to his feet and waved her into the room. "Sit down, Minerva. You look done in."

McGonagall shut the door behind her and moved over to the nearest chair. "We're all done in." Sinking into the padded cushions, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief. Her eyes fell on the rolled parchments and her brows drew together in a frown. "Are those from parents?"

"Yes." Dumbledore gave a casual wave of his wand, and full tea tray appeared in mid-air with a soft pop. He caught it deftly, set it on the desk, and poured McGonagall a steaming cup. Then he sat down and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. "Did the owls go out, as I asked?"

"They did." Her lips thinned into a tight, disapproving line. "I don't like it, Albus."

"Which of many 'its' are we talking about?" he asked, as he sipped his own tea.

"The owls."

"I gave the students my word that they could owl their parents."

"When it was safe. It's not safe to have anything passing in and out of the wards, especially when we have not been able to stabilize the pattern properly."

"I'm well aware of that, Minerva. That is why I had Hagrid take the owls upstairs and release them beyond the inner wards."

"Hagrid!"

"He is the obvious choice."

"I know his giant blood gives him some protection from magic in general, but even full giants are not immune to the Dark Lord's spells. Hagrid is only half-giant and half-trained. What would he do if he met a Death Eater up there?"

"They are not likely to give him much trouble, considering that many of letters he has retrieved come from them." Dumbledore flicked the pile of scrolls with one finger. "They want their children."

"How many have written?"

"All of those already identified as Death Eaters and a few who are only suspected. Then there are the parents who are simply afraid."

"What will you do?"

"What I must."

"You'll send those children out there... give them to those..."

"Give them to their parents, Minerva. But only if they choose to go."

She gave a grunt of sour laughter. "Most of the Slytherins are already packing their trunks." Her eyes narrowed as they moved to the parchment spread out in front of him. "Have you heard from Malfoy?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"His usual pack of threats and insults?"

"Actually, this letter was penned by Narcissa." He smiled humorlessly at her startled expression. "Funny how we tend to forget that Draco has a mother, isn't it? But Narcissa Malfoy is as potent a force in his life as Lucius. And as dangerous. She writes in a different style from her husband, but the message is the same: deliver Draco to Lucius or suffer the consequences."

"It's hard to imagine a mother _wanting_ her child in the hands of the Death Eaters," McGonagall mused.

"She has always supported Lucius' actions and encouraged Draco to follow in his footsteps. Family pride and so forth." Propping his elbows on the desk, he leaned forward and added, intently, "Don't make the mistake of assuming that the Malfoys do not love and value their son. He may be something of a trophy to them, but he is a valuable trophy and might well prove to be one of the most powerful wizards of his generation."

"That's why you want him, isn't it, Albus?"

"One of the reasons. Like Harry, Draco is destined to be a key player in the conflict ahead. It would be to our advantage to have both of those players on our team, wouldn't it?"

"Sometimes I forget how cold-blooded you can be."

"Is it cold-blooded to save a sixteen-year-old boy from Voldemort's clutches?"

"That depends on why you're doing it."

Dumbledore's face went still and the shutters behind his eyes came down. "I am fighting for the survival of our world, Minerva. I am also fighting for that boy's right to choose his own destiny. I will not compromise in either case."

McGonagall shifted uncomfortably beneath his emotionless gaze. "You said that his parents love him."

"Appearances to the contrary, yes, I believe they do."

"Then it will be doubly hard to win his loyalty away from them. Perhaps impossible."

"Ah." Dumbledore smiled brightly, his eyes warming into a kind of guileless enthusiasm. "That's where Mr. Potter comes in!"

McGonagall opened and closed her mouth a few times, like a beached fish, then exclaimed, "Albus, I do believe you've cracked under the strain of the past few days!"

"Have I?" His eyes twinkled wickedly. "How exciting!"

"Those two boys loathe each other. You couldn't have picked anyone _less_ likely to win Malfoy away from his parents if you'd tried. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy chose his father over you just to spite Potter! It's the kind of thing that little demon would do!"

"Minerva, really. Is it appropriate to call one of our students a little demon?"

Her face hardened with distaste, but she managed to choke out, "I beg your pardon. I won't repeat it."

"No, no, don't apologize. I rarely get to see this side of you, and I find it quite illuminating."

"Do stop teasing, Albus. This isn't funny. It seems to me that you are not only throwing away what small chance we had of saving Malfoy from his parents' deadly folly, but risking Potter's life into the bargain."

"Nonsense. Mr. Malfoy cannot harm Mr. Potter through the link, even if he tries. Harry controls it."

"Yes, but Lucius Malfoy controls that summoning charm."

"Harry can handle Lucius." McGonagall's eyebrows shot up, and Dumbledore quirked a smile at her. "Do you doubt it?"

"N-no..."

"And Harry, my dear Minerva, can also handle Draco far more effectively than you or I."

"How? By brain-blasting him in a fit of schoolboy rage?"

"You know Harry better than that."

"I don't understand, Albus, and I don't like not understanding!"

"None of us do."

She gave an exasperated sigh and tried again. "What special skill does Potter have in 'handling' Malfoy? Why are you so intent on Potter doing this?"

"Why, because they loathe each other, of course."

"Albus..."

He chuckled at the warning note in her voice. "Can you honestly have worked with young wizards and witches for so long without learning this much? Boys hate each other, Minerva. It's an immutable law of youth. They hate, they love, they switch back and forth depending on which girl they are fighting over... but none of it goes as deep as they imagine. Why, I remember when I was a teenager - fourteen or fifteen, I believe - and I got into a scuffle with Daedalus Diggle..."

"Albus!"

"I beg your pardon. Where was I?"

"Teenage boys fighting."

"Yes, indeed. The hates and loves of teenage boys feel as though they could shake the foundations of the world, when they happen, but they are nothing more than tiny ripples in a very big lake."

"Try telling that to the boys."

"That is not the point."

"I assume that you _will_ get to the point, eventually."

"I will. Here it is. What Harry and Draco feel for each other is in no way akin to those childish emotions. It is born in a deep, instinctive place that few of us ever visit in ourselves. It is something they cannot escape, though they have spent six years trying, and the force of it could indeed shake the foundations of our world, if unleashed."

"Aren't you afraid that this Blood Like will do just that?"

"I'm counting on it."

"But... _why?_"

His face was suddenly completely serious, his eyes intent. "Because I do not believe it is hatred that drives them, and because I want to be the one who harnesses the resultant power."

"Not hatred?" She stared at him as if he had tentacles sprouting from his forehead and demanded, "What then? And if you try to tell me that those two boys really love each other but would rather blast each other to twitching jelly than admit it, I swear I'll have you locked up in St. Mungo's!"

"I don't know how they feel. I only know that it is too strong for normal boyish hatred and too dangerous to let grow unchecked. It is time that Harry and Draco figured out exactly what draws them to revolve around each other like dual suns, each desperate to spin away but caught, helpless, by the pull of the other. They need to know, and so do we."

"And the Blood Link will help them do this."

"It has begun already."

McGonagall shifted restlessly, a frown gathering on her face. "What will you do if the thing that drives them _is_ hatred?"

Dumbledore looked grave. "Lose Draco to his father, keep Harry with us, and watch them destroy each other in the dark times to come."

"Oh, Albus."

"We all have true enemies, Minerva, just as we have true friends, and in war we must learn which is which."

"Potter already has so many enemies."

"Yes. Let us hope that Mr. Malfoy is not destined to be one of them."

"You almost make me feel sorry for him. Almost."

"Why, Minerva!" His eyes twinkled irrepressibly at her. "I do believe you have a soft spot for the little demon!"

McGonagall snorted and heaved herself to her feet. "I'm due to help Alastor with the wards and must get some lunch first."

"How are he and Snape coming with the power feed problem?"

"Slowly. Alastor says the power levels from each of us are too widely variant to balance easily, and he is not confident that he can maintain it once we are out of physical contact with him."

"Which makes a ward pattern involving all of the faculty pointless. We must be free to move about the castle while contributing to the wards or we must abandon the idea and stay down here, in a more limited space."

McGonagall frowned. "The students are already growing restless. We can't pen them up down here much longer without serious trouble, especially with half of the Slytherins threatening to break down the doors and rush the wards."

"They will be leaving soon."

"That will help, but it won't solve all our problems. You know how these kids are, Albus. Even the ones who want to be here are full of crackpot plans. Sooner or later, one of them is going to decide that he knows better than we do and try to take out the Death Eaters with his latest Charms project."

"True enough, but I've already dealt with the worst offender in that area."

"How?"

"Tied him up very neatly, thank you, so he can't run headlong into trouble."

McGonagall's eyes widened in understanding, then narrowed into slits as she began to chuckle. "You're a devious man, Albus Dumbledore. A very devious man."

"Thank you, my dear Minerva. Give my best to Alastor and tell him to hurry."

As McGonagall took her leave and strode out of the room, Dumbledore turned his attention back to the letter before him. Crookshanks still lay sprawled on the desk with a long, pinkish, hairless tail hanging out of his mouth, his golden eyes blinking sleepily at the old wizard. Dumbledore picked up his wand and used it to tickle the cat under the chin.

"You're as bad as any of them, Master Crookshanks. What cunning plot are you revolving in your feline brain?"

Crookshanks yawned and jumped down from the desk, then sauntered away, his tail sticking up jauntily. Dumbledore watched him go, smiling, then sighed and picked up the parchment. In a moment, his face had turned grave and his eyes distant. 

* * *

"What are you doing here, anyway, Potter?"

Harry lowered his book - a scrounged copy of _Quidditch through the Ages_ - to gaze at Malfoy over the top of it. The sight that met his eyes wasn't exactly reassuring. 

Malfoy did seem a bit better, if Harry didn't look too closely. He was awake, relatively alert and looking less corpse-like than before. But he was still so pale he seemed almost transparent, and his eyes were a flat, clouded grey, set in purple shadows. Even his voice didn't sound right. When he spoke to Harry, it was with a dull, rather petulant hostility that had none of his usual spark. Draco might be utter slime, but he was normally very colorful slime. Talking to him now, Harry missed the gleam of triumph in his eyes when he said something really cutting, or the wickedness that lurked in his smile. There had always been something feral about Draco's enjoyment of humiliating, tormenting and infuriating Harry that gave him a certain morbid charm. Without that charm, he was simply obnoxious.

"I'm reading," Harry said in answer to his question.

Malfoy gave a grunt of disgust. "You know what I mean. There's nothing wrong with you, so why is Pomfrey keeping you here?"

Harry shrugged. "She says I need rest."

"The Hero business getting to be too much for you?" Malfoy drawled.

"Something like that." He raised the book again and pretended to read.

Malfoy twisted onto his left side so he could look at Harry without turning his head and pulled his knees up toward his chest. It was an unconsciously defensive posture that made him look smaller and more fragile than Harry would have thought possible just a few short days ago. 

"Are you my jailer?" he asked abruptly.

The book came down again. "Your what?"

"My jailer. My guard. My babysitter. The goon who's supposed to keep me here for Dumbledore."

Harry grinned at him in unaffected delight. "That's me. Captain of the Gryffindor Goon Squad." Then he rolled his eyes and said, "Get over yourself, Malfoy. No one cares if you leave."

"Right."

"No, seriously." He nodded toward the screen that obscured the rest of the room. "Go on. I won't stop you."

Draco stared at him for a long moment, then shut his eyes, exhaustion and defeat hanging thickly about him. 

Harry closed the book and let it drop to the bed. Turning onto his side, he propped himself up on one elbow and regarded Malfoy curiously. "Do you really want to leave?"

"How could I," he mocked, softly, "knowing how terribly you'd miss me?"

"I mean it, Malfoy." As he spoke, Harry sent a swift, silent burst of energy through the link, pleading, _Tell me the truth. Tell me! I need to know!_ "I'm not trying to be funny or snide. Do you want to go, even if Dumbledore works it out so you don't have to?"

Draco's eyes opened again and fixed thoughtfully on Harry's face. Something inside of him had unclenched, a door opened, a wall dropped. And for the moment, his eyes were completely clear. "Of course I do."

"Why?"

His silvery-blond eyebrows rose in surprise. "This is my family we're talking about. My mum and dad. Why wouldn't I want to go to them?"

"Because..." Looking into Malfoy's face, Harry suddenly found it impossible to say the hurtful things that came to mind. He hesitated, floundering, and Malfoy spoke again.

"Just because you don't like them doesn't mean they're bad people."

"They torture Muggles for fun!" Harry blurted out.

"I know." 

That simple statement rocked Harry back on his heels. It carried with it a wealth of conflict and disappointment, worry, hope, love and anger, all tied up in a child's stubborn faith that his parents knew best. And it convinced Harry as nothing else could that Draco Malfoy had a heart - a heart that trusted the wrong people, but a heart just the same.

With this realization came an overwhelming desire to throw himself into the link, to surge across it, grab Malfoy around the brain stem, and shake him until he saw reason. He had to know what his parents were! He _did_ know, and he didn't like it! But still he trusted them, still he hid every better impulse he had beneath a veneer of vicious snobbery, and soon he would sell his soul to Voldemort for love of two people who didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve _him_.If Harry could only reach him, get beneath that veneer and those years of slow poison to touch the person who still lived somewhere inside him... the person who hurt when innocent people suffered... he could save Draco from himself!

Harry pulled himself up short, horrified by the direction his thoughts were taking. This was exactly the temptation Dumbledore had warned him against, and Harry had almost walked straight into it the moment Malfoy showed a hint of decency. But it was wrong. The worst kind of wrong. A wrong so complete that it would put Harry on the level of Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort himself to do it! He could not tamper with Draco's feelings, subvert his love for his parents or force him to choose a path not his own. He could not, no matter how desperate the ache in his chest when he thought of letting Draco walk out of this castle and home to _them_.

All of this flashed through Harry's mind in a the time it took to digest Draco's words and come up with an answer. Malfoy was still looking at him with unguarded eyes, and Harry felt a curious twinge of guilt at the trust implied by that look.

"You don't have to be like them, Draco."

The other boy's eyes went blank and closed, his face hard, all in a breath. "You don't know anything about me or my family, Potter."

"I know that your father helped launch an attack on this school with you still inside it." 

The blank disbelief in Malfoy's face was echoed by a cold horror that ran like dead fingers down Harry's spine. Forcing his own feelings down deep, where they could not show in his face, Harry set a rigid mental guard about the Blood Link. He opened it wider, allowing a strong, steady flow of power to pass into Malfoy's body, but he sent no spark of awareness with it, no guidance or emotion. 

Then he said, quietly, "Last night, the castle was attacked by Voldemort's forces. The Death Eaters blasted three holes in the outer wards and swept the grounds, killing anything that moved. You were found right next to the wards at the spot where we think they made the first breach. You were almost dead, flattened by the blast and the Dark spells they hurled through the hole."

"No." The word came out levelly enough, but it was underscored by a surge of anger and panic. "No. It didn't happen like that."

"I was the one who found you, Malfoy. I saw what they did to you."

"No! My father wouldn't hurt me!" Malfoy shifted his left hand higher against his chest and candlelight glinted off of the polished silver of the summoning charm. "He sent for me! I remember that much... hearing him call..." There was an edge of desperation to his voice now and a feverish glint in his eyes. "He wanted me out!"

"Maybe. But he knew you weren't safely out when the attack came, and he did nothing to stop it. He must have known you were on the grounds somewhere, trying to find him. He must have known you were in the line of fire."

"Stop it!" Malfoy hissed. "It wasn't him. He didn't do this to me." He twisted abruptly onto his back and turned his head away, shielding his face from Harry's gaze. 

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, wanting to circle around Malfoy's bed and confront him face-to-face again. But his movement was halted by the appearance of a familiar face poking around the screen. 

Hulking and vacant, with a pudding-bowl haircut that looked even more ridiculous now than it had when he was eleven, Vincent Crabbe regarded them both in slow surprise. When the fact that the boy sitting on the edge of the far bed was Harry Potter had penetrated his skull, he straightened up and sidled around the screen to stand next to Draco.

"Hallo, Malfoy."

"Hallo, Crabbe. Paying a morning call?"

Crabbe's arrival had broken the tension building between Harry and Draco and helped his fellow Slytherin to bring himself back under control. Harry could feel the shutters slamming down, the walls going up and the threatened hysteria being ruthlessly quashed, as Malfoy struggled to face Crabbe with something like his usual flippant manner. Crabbe didn't notice the difference, but then, Crabbe didn't notice much beyond the size of his meal.

"It's too late for that," he informed Malfoy earnestly. "It's almost supper time."

Malfoy heaved a longsuffering sigh, then broke out coughing. While Crabbe scowled at him in concern, Harry sent him a surreptitious calming thought. The spasm passed quickly, but Harry could not see if Malfoy was bleeding again. 

"You look a right mess," Crabbe observed.

"Thanks loads. Is there a reason you're here, Crabbe? Or did you just want to cry over my wounds?"

"I, uhh, wanted to talk to you about something, but..." His eyes flicked to Harry's face then away again. "I guess it can wait."

"Ignore Potter. He's just there for decoration."

"I'll come back later."

With a sullen nod in Harry's direction and a muttered farewell to Malfoy, Crabbe shuffled off again. Harry watched him go in bemusement, then looked down to find Malfoy glaring at him.

"Isn't it bad enough that I'm stuck here with you, Potter? Do you have to scare off my friends?"

Harry shrugged. "You scare off mine, so I guess we're even."

With a disgruntled sigh and another short burst of coughing, Malfoy curled up with his back to Harry and pretended to sleep. Harry watched him for a moment, toying with the notion of venturing through the link to help him sleep for real but decided against it. Picking up his book, he lay back down in bed and tried to concentrate on the exploits of famous Seekers.

Crabbe stumped into the Slytherin common room and was pounced on by Pansy almost before the door had closed. She dragged him over to the corner where Goyle, Millicent, Blaise and a handful of others were waiting.

"So?" she demanded, shrilly. "Did you see him?"

"Yeah."

Pansy waited for him to say more, her eyes wide and anxious, then gave a shout and slapped him in the head. "What _happened?!_"

"Nothing. Potter was there."

Blaise frowned at him. Crabbe didn't like Blaise Zabini. She made him nervous. She was almost as smart as Malfoy and twice as mean when she didn't get her way. And she was a girl, which made her dangerous in ways Malfoy would never be. "Why was Potter there?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, bollocks! Why did we send this moron in the first place?"

"I wanted to go. I told you I wanted to..."

"Shut up, Crabbe. Just shut up."

Now Pansy was pulling on his arm and screeching in his ear again. "What did Draco say? Did he look all right? Is he coming with us?"

"I didn't ask him. I told you, Potter was there."

"Come _on_, Crabbe! Tell us _something!_"

"I went to the hospital room and I found Malfoy. He's there with Potter."

"Potter's in the hospital, too?" Millicent demanded, before Blaise could stop her from interrupting his train of thought.

"Yeah. He was in his pajamas and sitting in bed, so I guess he's sleeping there. Him and Malfoy are behind this screen. Like, in a private room. I went in to talk to Malfoy, but Potter was there, so I didn't say anything. Except... I'd come back to visit later."

"Brilliant," Blaise snapped. "We'd have done better to send Dormand's rat."

"How did Draco _look?_" Pansy said.

"Ruddy awful." Pansy put her hands over her mouth and made her eyes go all round in that mushy way he hated. "Doesn't look like he could get out of bed without falling down dead, much less out of the school."

"Oh, Draco!"

"Shut up, Pansy," Blaise snapped. Crabbe thought she looked even more hacked off than usual, but he could have been mistaken. Blaise was always hacked off. "We'll just have to find some kind of leverage to use on Dumbledore. Something that will force him to let Draco go with the rest of us. There's got to be something..."

As the others fell to nattering about plans and leverage, Crabbe drifted over to the fire and slumped into a big, green, scratchy chair. He thought for a long time about what he had seen in the infirmary. He didn't understand it, but he knew it was important - Malfoy and Potter together. Potter refusing to leave when he came in. Malfoy looking like he'd been dug up out of a fresh grave. Somehow it all fit, and somehow it was important, but he was buggered if he could figure out how.

The others had left, probably gone to find dinner. Crabbe was hungry, but he was thinking too hard to be bothered with food just now. As the common room emptied, he reached into his robes and pulled out a roll of parchment. 

His blunt fingers spread it out flat on his knee, and he stared down at the crooked, clumsy lines of his own writing. He didn't need to read it. He knew it by heart, even though he never learned anything by heart. It was a letter to his mum and dad, asking them to bring him home from Hogwarts. It was supposed to be tied to the leg of a Barn owl, headed for Hogsmeade where he knew his dad was right now. But Crabbe had volunteered to carry the letters to Hagrid for a reason, just as he had volunteered to hunt up Malfoy for a reason. He had carried those letters so he could slip his own out of the bundle without Blaise or Millicent noticing. And he had gone to Malfoy to ask him what he planned to do, because Vincent Crabbe had his suspicions about Malfoy.

They could call him stupid - all those clever, clever Slytherins. They could laugh at him and treat him like a gorilla in a little kid's haircut. But he noticed things. Little, niggling things. Like the fact that Malfoy never called Granger a Mudblood anymore. Or the way Malfoy hated Harry Potter so much that he talked about him more than anyone else and looked at him more than anyone else and spent all his time thinking of ways to get even with him. No one ever got even with Potter, but Malfoy never stopped trying, and he never stopped talking about him and watching him and thinking about him.

No, Crabbe wasn't as stupid as they all thought. He knew that Malfoy wanted one thing more than he wanted to be a Death Eater. He wanted to get Harry Potter. And Crabbe wanted something else, too. He wouldn't tell anyone, wouldn't even think it out loud, in case one of those clever Slytherins had learned how to read minds, but just maybe he could have it, if he didn't have to do it alone. Just maybe.

With a sudden flick of his wrist, Crabbe flung the scroll into the fire. 

**__**

To be continued...


	5. The Second Breach

****

Chapter 5: _The Second Breach_

The two boys had achieved something like an armed truce. For more than twelve hours, they had not mentioned the subject of Draco's parents or anything else that might spark conflict between them. What little talking they did was strictly neutral - idle chatter and half-hearted sparring matches that neither of them could take seriously by now - but most of their time was spent ignoring each other. They were both too tired and preoccupied to waste their energy with fighting.

Draco lay quietly in his bed, one hand over his eyes, barely moving except for the rise and fall of his chest. Harry was reading _Quidditch Through the Ages_ for the umpteenth time. He knew the book so well that he did not actually have to read the words, and so he found it hard to concentrate. His mind kept drifting toward the boy in the other bed. 

For all Malfoy's outward calm, Harry could feel the pain and illness eating at him like acid in his blood. It made his own stomach clench with distress, and the constant drag of the summoning charm was like an iron hook in his chest, pulling him remorselessly toward an unseen evil. If it felt so bad to him, how much worse was it for Malfoy? Harry told himself that he didn't want to know, but as the silent minutes ticked by, he found himself unable to let go of the thought.

Almost without knowing it, he began to drift closer to the link. Since yesterday's moment of temptation, Harry had studiously avoided any emotional contact with Draco, merely letting his power flow through the link without any direction or attention. But the pain and urgency bleeding through to him were growing steadily worse, and with nothing to distract him, Harry found that he could not ignore them. He knew he had the power to help, and he could not stop himself.

It was true that Draco was still alive, but his injuries were maddeningly slow to heal - some of them refused to heal at all - and the spells clinging to the summoning charm refused to be broken or banished. All the power Harry poured into him was used to keep him alive and to block the summons as best he could. None of it seemed to actually repair the damage done in the attack. _What good did a healing link do, if it couldn't heal?_ Harry asked himself.

He was not even aware of the moment in which he crossed the barrier. He was firmly inside his own head, arguing with himself, and then he was in two places at once. It was a strange and frightening feeling, but not at all what he had expected from his first accidental, chaotic venture through the link. He felt no urge to withdraw, no disgust, no panic, only an overwhelming sense of urgency and pain. Pain everywhere.

He could not find a single part of Draco that didn't hurt. The summoning charm was the worst of it, like a band of molten steel around his wrist, burning up his arm and into his chest, the heat of it pulsing with his heartbeat and hammering in his skull. The pounding pain and heat seemed to form words in his mind, calling to him, ordering him to answer. Harry could not quite hear the words, but he could feel the immense strain they put on Malfoy, as his body and mind tried to obey the summons while his will held them in check. It occurred to Harry, for the first time, that only his determination to hold onto both dignity and sanity kept Malfoy from going screaming mad under the onslaught of the charm. _No one, _Harry thought, _except maybe that unforgivable bastard Lucius Malfoy, should have to live with that kind of pain_. 

Hiding his face behind his book, Harry screwed his eyes shut and pictured the charm in his mind, glowing red-hot and sinister in the darkness behind his eyelids. He could see the talons it had sunk in Draco's flesh, see the twisted, ugly threads of power radiating from it, stitched into the very fabric of his mind over time. And tangled in among those threads, trapped by the pull of the charm, were the Dark spells. There was no way to banish the spells while the charm stayed active, but Harry could at least ease the pain of them, for a time. Summoning the power he needed from his own reserves, he spread it like a balm over Draco's mind, numbing the heat of the charm and insulating him from the clinging cold of the spells. 

The sudden easing of pressure and pain within Draco almost made Harry gasp aloud. His eyes flew open, and he turned to look at the other boy. As he watched, Draco turned onto his side and curled up in the closest thing to relaxation that Harry had seen him achieve. His eyes were open, but the hard, glazed look had left them, and they now seemed merely tired. Achingly tired.

Harry quickly lifted his book to cover his face again, a smile of triumph curling his lips. Once again, he pretended to read, but more than half his attention was now fixed on Malfoy, and on the tiny part of him that was still joined to the other boy, lodged between him and the source of pain and madness within him. 

__

It really does work, Harry marveled, _just like Professor Dumbledore said. I can do this. I can help Malfoy. And won't he be furious when he finds out!_ He almost giggled but managed to swallow it in time.

* * *

Hermione hurried down the long, low-ceilinged corridor, holding her wand in one hand and searching the shadows intently for signs of movement. She was close to the main staircase that led up from the dungeons to the castle's entry hall, and therefore close to the inner wards. So close, in fact, that she could feel them in the bones of her head. It was a vibration below the range of hearing but strong enough to set her body humming like a tuning fork. 

She did not like the feeling, nor did she like knowing how close she was to the safe boundaries laid out by Dumbledore. The sunlight streaming down the stairs and spilling through the archway at the bottom didn't help any. She ought to have been cheered by it, after all these days of nothing but torches and candlelight, but instead she found it unsettling. In her essentially Muggle mind, an open door was a hazard, and the sunlit stairs could only mean that the huge oaken doors at the top were open. She knew, rationally, that it was the wards that protected them, not the doors, but her instincts didn't believe it, and she was anxious to get back into the safety of dank stone walls.

Halting at the first door she came to, she tapped it lightly with her wand and muttered, "_Alohomora_." It opened with a groan of rusty hinges, and Hermione conjured a ball of wandfire to light the room beyond. Nothing but shelf after shelf of musty blankets and bed curtains. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of dust, old wool and rat droppings, then pulled the door shut again.

"Crookshanks, you miserable cat, where are you?" she asked no one in particular.

Crookshanks was her reason for being out of the main dungeon and roaming these passages. He had been spotted by several people in the last two days, including Harry and Professor Dumbledore, and now he was accused of eating two mice and a toad that had been rescued from the upper castle at great peril to their owners. Hermione was in danger of some serious retribution, if she didn't find and muzzle her cat. Hufflepuffs weren't generally mean, but they could come up with some truly unpleasant threats when pushed beyond the limits of their patience, and Hermione didn't really want the entire House out for her blood. 

She unlocked another door and pushed her way into the room. This one was larger and more cluttered than the last, with ample places for a resourceful cat to hide. It also looked incredibly dirty, but that would not daunt Crookshanks, so Hermione would have to put up with it. She had just made herself a nice lamp out of a dented brass bowl and an extra-large ball of blue light, when a sudden, eerie chill crept over her.

With a gasp, she whirled to face the door, her lamp clutched to her chest in shaking hands. There was no one there, but the chill intensified, running like icy sweat over her skin. She set the lamp on a handy crate and tightened her grip on her wand. Then she crept to the open door. As she stuck her head into the passage, she felt the cold flow over her again, more thickly still. There was something horribly familiar about it, but she couldn't place it. 

A movement in the heavy shadows to her left made her start, then she saw that it was Crookshanks. The cat was running toward the stairs, his belly low to the ground and his bottle-brush tail sticking out stiffly behind him. He did not even glance in Hermione's direction as he passed.

"Crookshanks, no!"

His head snapped around, and he sidled against the far wall, his fur standing up like bristles all over his back. Hermione stepped toward him, and he hissed a furious warning. Then he took off running toward the stairs again.

"_No!_" She bolted from the storeroom, momentarily forgetting the chill of evil in the air and her fear of what waited on the other side of the wards, and lunged after Crookshanks. He was nearly at the foot of the stairs when she threw herself forward in a flat dive and caught him. They both landed hard on the stone floor, and Crookshanks let out a piercing yowl, fighting like a demon in her arms. "Hold still! Hold _still,_ you rotter!"

Suddenly, Crookshanks froze. Hermione froze with him, appalled by the sounds that flowed down the stairs to her on a current of icy air. She lifted her head and stared up at the open doors. The sunlight was gone, smothered in clinging shadow, and through the dim opening above her came distant shouts, screams and the crackle of flames. 

Gathering the rigid cat in her arms, Hermione pushed herself to her knees and scrambled frantically away from the stairs. Her breath sobbed in her throat and her heart labored in her chest, pounding horridly against her ribcage. Fear such as she had felt only once or twice before in her life closed about her in a stinking, rotten fist and began to squeeze the life out of her.

__

Dementors, she thought, as the peculiar darkness began to cloud her vision. _The Dementors are here_.

She had no idea how long she sat there, clutching Crookshanks and waiting for the Dementors to find her. It may have been hours, or it may have been only minutes before warmth and life began to flow through her numb body again. The light from the open doors above was still dim and shrouded, but the air was marginally warmer. The clutch of terror on her eased, and Crookshanks relaxed into a purring, furry donut on her lap. Hermione collapsed back against the wall, breathing in great, shuddering gasps.

The sound of hurrying feet on the stairs brought Crookshanks up in a flash. He bounded from Hermione's thigh and landed silently on the stone floor, then he sauntered toward the approaching footsteps. Hermione held her breath and drew back into the shadows by the wall.

It was Snape, and he was in a hurry. He came down the stairs awkwardly, two at a time, and Hermione could have sworn that she saw dark footprints on the treads behind him. He reached the bottom step and was greeted affectionately by Crookshanks. 

"Away from me, you repellant animal," Snape growled, trying to shove Crookshanks away from his legs without actually kicking him. Crookshanks only purred louder and rubbed harder. He came away with sticky, red smears on his ginger fur.

Snape muttered something terrifically rude under his breath and drew back his foot for a proper kick, but a call from the top of the stairs forestalled him.

"Severus! A moment, please!"

"I must get to the annex, Headmaster."

Dumbledore came lightly down the stairs to meet him, holding a wand in his hand that still glowed and spat occasional sparks. "Indeed you must, but first..." 

"It is not my cuts and bruises that worry me," Snape said, interrupting him. "It's Potter and Malfoy. They shouldn't be left unguarded with those things about the grounds, and you know what Potter is."

"Mr. Potter isn't going anywhere, Severus. But do check on them." Snape started to turn away, but Dumbledore lifted a hand to stop him. "Wait. How many did you retrieve before the assault?"

In the dim light, Snape's face looked sour, but there was a leaden weariness in his voice that belied his expression. "Four. All from the Quidditch field."

"Have you heard from Sibyll?"

"I've heard nothing from the other team. We can only hope that Trelawney and Sprout were able to get in and out of the greenhouse in time."

"Perhaps. Perhaps." Dumbledore shook his head, his face grave. "Three still on the grounds, two destroyed, and two most likely still in the greenhouse."

"And four missing entirely," Snape added.

"Yes."

They fell silent for a moment, then Snape jerked himself out of his grim mood and said, "I'll be in the annex if you need me, Headmaster."

"Thank you, Severus. Let Poppy fuss over you a bit, while you have an excuse."

Snape's grunt of disgust left no doubt as to what he thought of that idea. He nodded to Dumbledore and strode off down the passage, limping slightly. Dumbledore waited until he was out of sight, then he fixed his eyes directly on Hermione and said, "Now, Miss Granger, suppose you tell me what you're doing out of the main dungeon."

Hermione swallowed noisily and clambered to her feet. Crookshanks, traitor that he was, began to rub against her legs and wipe Snape's blood on her already filthy robes. Hermione gave Dumbledore a rather weak smile and said, "I was looking for my cat. Professor McGonagall said I should find him and," she flushed slightly, "muzzle him. He's been eating other people's pets, you see."

"Yes, indeed. He's been eating many of them on my desk."

"I'm sorry, Professor! He isn't very good about staying where I put him, especially with so many edible things running around, and in all the confusion I, well, I rather lost track of him."

"Never mind, Miss Granger. I quite understand. Now I suggest you take Master Crookshanks back to the dungeon and see if Filch can put together a suitable home for him. At least until he can return to his haunts upstairs."

"Yes, Professor." She scooped up Crookshanks, who looked at her with calculating eyes that seemed to be measuring her grip strength and determination. "Umm, Professor Dumbledore?"

"Miss Granger?"

"Is Harry in any danger from the Dementors?"

"You know about the Dementors?"

"I... I felt them. I can still feel them."

"That is because they are still on the grounds." Dumbledore regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, tapping his wand against his lower lip, then he said, "You needn't worry about Harry. As long as he stays in the dungeon, he's in no danger from the Dementors."

"But Professor Snape seemed to think..."

He silenced her with a raised hand. "The Dementors are no threat to Harry. And you are not to go into the hospital dungeon without my permission, or to discuss the Dementors with the other students."

Hermione set her jaw mulishly and insisted, "You'll tell me if Harry's in any trouble, won't you?"

"I will tell you. You have my word."

She had to be satisfied with that, since she clearly wasn't going to get into the hospital annex to visit Harry any time soon. Hoisting the enormous cat onto her shoulder, Hermione trudged back to the dungeon and another period of enforced silence. 

* * *

Neither of the boys had moved or spoken in some time when they heard the dungeon door bang open and hasty footsteps enter the room. Harry rolled off the bed and padded over to the screen. Peering around it, he gave a yelp of surprise and started down the length of the ward at a sprint.

Professor Snape halted him with a particularly venomous glare and snapped, "Get back where you belong, Potter!" 

Harry checked in mid-stride and goggled at Snape. "What happened, Professor?"

"I said, get back where you belong! Where's Malfoy?"

Harry waved toward the screen. "In bed. Are you okay, Professor? You're bleeding."

This was a masterful piece of understatement. Snape was not just bleeding, he was bleeding a _lot_, and he had what looked like wicked burns up the side of his face. Harry took a cautious step nearer to him, but Snape was now striding toward the screen at the back of the room, a thunderous scowl on his face and no attention to spare for Harry. He left squishy red footprints behind him on the spotless floor.

"Madam Pomfrey went to get some more medicines from upstairs," Harry said. "She said she'd be back in..."

"Malfoy?" Snape poked his head around the screen. "Are you all right?"

Harry came up beside Snape, gazing curiously from the man to the boy. He saw the look of surprise on Malfoy's face and felt a surge of alarm hit him through the link. Stiffly, Malfoy pushed himself up on his good hand and sat up. His face was the color of dirty snow, his hair was a tangled mess, and he held his left arm cradled in his right hand as though he could not support it otherwise, but he was sitting up. That was a first.

"I'm okay." Harry knew that was a lie, even without the wash of emotion that came off of Draco. "What happened to you?"

Snape waved that away, then turned to grab Harry by the collar and shove him toward his bed. "Stay right here, both of you. You're not to leave your beds without permission."

"Why?"

"Don't argue with me, Potter..."

"Professor, _why?!_" Harry demanded, anxiety making him reckless.

Snape glanced between the two boys, his lips tight with pain and fury, then he snarled, "The Death Eaters breached the outer wards again."

A flash of hope showed in Draco's eyes, and Snape's lip curled in a sour, humorless smile. "That pleases you, does it? Then you'll be happy to know that they destroyed the bodies of two of your classmates and injured three teachers." He held up his singed and bleeding arm, his smile turning into a grimace.

"B-bodies?" Draco whispered.

"Bodies. Don't pretend you're surprised, Malfoy. You must have known there would be casualties." Draco shook his head mutely, and Harry could tell that his shock was genuine. "Eleven of your classmates, or eleven that we've found so far, killed in the first minutes of the attack. Their bodies were left on the grounds for two days, waiting until Dumbledore thought it was safe to recover them. We tried this morning, but Voldemort had other ideas."

Draco licked his lips nervously. "Who was... who was killed?"

"No one from Slytherin House." The coldness in his voice startled Harry. It was the first time he had ever heard Snape speak to Malfoy that way, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "A pair of Hufflepuffs who were working in the greenhouses, some second years who were playing Quidditch, and a handful of other students who had wandered out on the grounds for whatever reason. And there are four students still missing, two of whom are Slytherins. Missing and presumed dead."

"Who are the others?" Harry asked.

"Finch-Fletchley and one of the Patil girls."

Now the shock and horror filling Harry were all his own. "Parvati?" he gasped.

"No, the Ravenclaw."

"Padma..." Harry sat bolt upright, his eyes going unfocused as he tried desperately to remember what Parvati had told him about her sister just a few nights ago. The night of the attack. They'd been sitting in the common room, and Parvati had been gossiping with Lavender about her sister, her voice loud enough to carry through the room. She had gloated about Padma's new boyfriend and how they liked to... 

"Padma!" Harry leapt off the bed and took off running for the door, thinking _Justin! She's with Justin!_

"Potter, come back here!" Snape bellowed.

"I know where they are!" he screamed, still running.

"STOP!"

Before the word had left Snape's lips, Harry felt a terrible jerk in his chest, as if a huge rubber band that was tied around his breastbone suddenly snapped tight, and he was plucked off his feet. In the same instant, Draco gave a sharp cry and pitched forward off the bed. Snape caught him before he hit the floor and stood, a half-conscious boy draped over his bleeding arm, glaring at Harry's sprawled form and shouting furiously at him to get up.

Harry blinked at the ceiling, not sure how he had ended up spread-eagled on his back, his glasses askew, feeling like his ribcage had just been torn out. He could hear Snape yelling at him and spewing rude words in between the orders, but he couldn't catch his breath well enough to answer him.

"Get back here, Potter! _Now!_"

"I... I can't." There was a buzzing in his ears that made it hard to think, and the pain was getting worse. 

To Harry's surprise, Snape stopped yelling. He was even more surprised to see the Potions Master pacing down the long room toward him, the black wings of his robes flapping, lugging Draco Malfoy over one arm like a long, skinny sack of scarab beetles. As they drew nearer, the pain in Harry's chest eased and the buzzing faded. By the time Snape came to a halt above him, he was sitting up, rubbing one hand over his chest and wondering where the huge rubber band had gone.

"That was the single most idiotic thing you could possibly have done," Snape informed him, acidly.

"Yeah. I guess it was." Harry gave his chest one more rub and clambered to his feet. "Was it the..."

"Yes." Snape snapped, cutting him off. He shifted his hold on Malfoy, and when the boy's head fell back, Harry saw that he was awake, if not very alert. Snape put an arm behind his knees and hoisted him into a more comfortable position. Draco looked as though he were about to throw up. 

Cautiously, Harry sidled up to him. "You okay, Malfoy?"

Draco tried to lift his head but couldn't quite manage it, and to his own surprise, Harry slipped a hand behind his neck to help. Malfoy fixed him with dull eyes, too miserable to complain about the despised Harry Potter taking such liberties with his person.

"What happened?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe you shouldn't have sat up so soon."

Draco swallowed the sickness in his throat and muttered, "Liar."

The word was not uttered as a challenge, and Harry felt no anger at it. Draco was simply telling him, in his own abrasive way, that he knew there was something else going on and Harry was in on it. On an impulse, Harry sent an extra surge of strength through the link to Draco. The other boy responded immediately, his eyes growing brighter and sharper, his pale face taking on a tinge of color, and his head jerking free of Harry's clasp. The look he fixed on Harry was deeply suspicious, but Harry simply pulled his hand back and turned away.

"I can walk," Malfoy said to Snape, sounding irritated.

"I highly doubt that." Snape headed for the end of the room in Harry's wake, still carrying Draco. Once behind the screen again, he set Draco on the bed with surprising gentleness and turned on Harry. "Now, Potter, what's this about knowing where to find Patil and Finch-Fletchley?"

"I don't _know_ I know. I _think_ I know."

Snape sighed, and Harry was suddenly reminded that the professor had injuries of his own that had not been treated. The dour Potions Master came perilously close to drooping. "Spare me your attempts at logic. Just tell me what you _think_ you know."

"Padma and Justin are... uhmm... dating."

"How nice for them," Snape said, dryly. 

"Parvati says they like to hang out behind Hagrid's hut, near the Forbidden Forest."

"Why would they...? Never mind. I don't want to know." He started to rub a hand over his face but pulled it back when he accidentally touched one of the burns. "If they were outside, there's little chance they survived."

"But Professor Dumbledore said there were no attacks from the direction of the Forest."

"There weren't. Even Death Eaters try to avoid giant spiders and werewolves, as a general rule."

"So, couldn't Padma and Justin have hidden somewhere? In the Forest, or maybe at Hagrid's?"

"It's possible." Snape frowned down at Harry. "I'll talk to Dumbledore about it, but..."

Once again, the door banged open and footsteps sounded on the flagstones, but this time, it was a whole stampede of footsteps. Snape broke off in mid-sentence and looked around the screen. Then he was gone, leaving Harry and Draco to stare at each other in confusion.

Harry hopped off his bed again and crept up to the screen. When he peered around it, he saw Dumbledore, Snape, Madam Pomfrey, and a large group of teachers all milling about in the middle of the room. Madam Pomfrey was doing her best to quell the noise, but everyone seemed intent on talking at once, while Madam Hooch fingered her referee's whistle in a threatening manner and Professor Trelawny looked as though she were about to cry.

Madam Hooch had Professor Vector propped up against her shoulder, and the Arithmancy witch was moaning and bleeding all over the floor. Between her and Snape, they were making quite a mess. The only other person who looked hurt was Flitwick. He had a black eye, a split lip and a front tooth missing, but it didn't slow him down in the least. He was bouncing on his toes and talking faster than anyone.

"Burnt to a crisp!" Flitwick shrieked, much to Madam Pomfrey's dismay. "I was trying to put out the flames when the hex hit me!"

"Really, Professor, must we talk about such things in front of the students?" Madam Pomfrey chided, as she took Professor Vector by the arm and guided her to an empty bed.

"We'll need something to carry them in, before we try again," Flitwick went on, ignoring her. "There's nothing left but a pile of ashes."

"It's not the dead ones I'm worried about," Madam Hooch retorted angrily. "It's all these poor kids shut up in the dungeon, with those... those _monsters_ roaming the grounds!"

"Some of those 'monsters' are the parents of these children," Snape pointed out.

Madam Hooch shuddered. "I don't mean them, though they are certainly bad enough. I mean the Dementors."

Harry flinched at the mention of Dementors and backed away from the screen. His stomach was suddenly churning and his palms were sweaty, and it took him several gasping breaths to calm himself enough to think. Then he realized that much of the fear knotting his innards did not belong to him. He shot a covert glance at Malfoy and saw that he was sitting up in bed, staring blankly at the screen, his face white and sick.

"Draco." Malfoy's head snapped around and his eyes fixed on Harry's, but his expression did not change. "What's wrong?"

"They brought the Dementors."

Harry eyed him doubtfully. "Yeah... well... I'm the one who's supposed to be terrified of them, not you."

"They brought them _here_."

"Draco?" Harry took a step closer to him. "You're kind of scaring me. Don't look at me like that."

Malfoy blinked, and his eyes came abruptly back into focus. He seemed to recognize Harry again. "I saw them. The Dementors. All summer they were leaving Azkaban, a few at a time, gathering in a secret place under the Dark Lord's protection."

From the revulsion in his voice, Harry suspected that he had been to this 'secret place' more than once with his father and had developed a healthy fear of the Dementors. 

"I heard about that. The Ministry of Magic has been looking for them."

"Father said..." Draco bit off his words and stared anxiously at Harry. After a moment's hesitation, he went on, "Father said they were only to be used against the traitors. The ones who changed sides."

Harry could not quite restrain a snort of disgust. "And you believed him? Come on, Malfoy. This is your father we're talking about."

Malfoy's face tightened, but the pain beating at Harry through the link told him that Draco's outward anger was only for show. "Watch your mouth, Potter. That scar doesn't give you the right to insult my family!"

"I'm not insulting your family. I'm making an observation. Your father is not known for telling the truth when it doesn't suit him."

"I trust my father."

Wordlessly, Harry moved over to the bed and lifted Malfoy's left arm from where it lay, heavy and useless, across his thigh. The burns on his wrist were now suppurating, the torn flesh beginning to blacken, and Harry did not need the link to tell him that Malfoy was in agony from it. Draco met his gaze, grey eyes flashing, and his lips tightened in helpless anger.

"Who gave you this, Malfoy?"

"It's Dumbledore's fault!" Draco hissed. "He won't let me go!"

"He _can't_ let you go, you thundering great prat! You'll die! Not to mention that the Dementors will get you, if you step out of the castle. They don't know you're Lucius Malfoy's precious son; all they see is life and warmth to suck out of you. If your father thinks so highly of you, why did he send those things against us, knowing you're stuck in here?"

Draco licked lips. The rage in his eyes faltered, and fear began to creep in behind it. "Don't say another word about my father, or I swear, I'll..."

"I won't." 

Without letting go of Draco's wrist or releasing his gaze, Harry suddenly opened the link as wide as he could. A flood of emotion swept over him, confused and agonizing, but he fought his way grimly free of it and threw his full awareness into the link that connected them. In the space of a breath, he was inside Draco's chest, easing the frantic pounding of his heart, cooling the acid fire in his veins, blocking the effects of the charm with his own power. 

The effect was instantaneous. Draco gave a cry of surprise, and his body straightened up with a jerk. His face, which had been pale and sickly as old wax, was suddenly tinged with healthy color. The flush bloomed in his lips as well, and for the first time since that dreadful night, Draco Malfoy looked truly alive. He turned his startled, furious eyes on Harry, his mouth open, but he could think of nothing to say.

Harry smiled crookedly at him, seeing him through a gold-shot haze of power that hummed and sang in his head. "This is what Dumbledore gave you."

Then, with a snap, Harry shut off the link. Before his eyes, Draco crumpled, collapsing toward the mattress, his eyes rolling up in his head and his breath coming in a weird, terrifying moan. Harry caught him as he fell and took his deadweight against his own chest. Gently, so as not to shock his system any further, Harry opened the link again and began to bleed power through it. Draco did not stir, only lay against him like an unstrung puppet, breathing hard.

Bending down 'til his lips nearly touched the mop of pale hair, he whispered, fiercely, "And that's what your father gave you. You figure it out, Malfoy."

For a long, long stretch of time, Draco said nothing. Harry slowly increased the flow through the link, taking more of the other boy's over-stressed emotion into himself as he gave back healing strength and subtly worked to counteract the charm. When Malfoy pushed himself away, Harry immediately let him go. And still they said nothing.

Finally, Draco lifted his head and turned deadened eyes on Harry. "You're keeping me alive, aren't you, Potter?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"It's called a Blood Link. Very advanced magic."

Draco looked at him for a moment, his face gone blank, then he quietly leaned over and vomited on the floor.

Harry gave a cry of alarm and grabbed at Malfoy to keep him from pitching off the bed. "Madam Pomfrey!" he shouted.

The racket on the other side of the screen had died down, and Madam Pomfrey came quickly at his call. 

"What's wrong, Potter?" she asked as she stepped around the screen. "This is no time for..." She saw the mess on the floor and the boy lying draped over Harry's arm, and her annoyance died.

"He's sick."

"I'd say so."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Malfoy gasped, another spasm shaking his body.

Clucking her tongue in distress, Madam Pomfrey waved her wand to clean up both floor and patient, then she helped Harry settle Malfoy back on the bed again. "You stay with him, Potter, and no silly tricks." The way her eyes narrowed at him, Harry couldn't help wondering if she'd seen what happened. Or maybe she, like nearly everyone else in the school, just assumed that he would take every chance offered to stick it to Malfoy. "I'll fetch the Headmaster. This is beyond me."

Then she bustled off again, leaving Harry to stand uncertainly by the bed and wonder what to do next.

Malfoy waited until Madam Pomfrey was out of earshot, then he cracked open his eyes and stared dully at Harry. "You really are a bastard, Potter."

Harry did not respond to the dig. Shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, he looked down at Malfoy's drawn face, gnawing his lip. Finally, he blurted out, "I'm sorry I did that!"

"Shut up."

"I didn't know how else to convince you that Dumbledore is trying to help you."

"Shut _up_. I don't want to talk about it."

"Why? Are you afraid you'll actually start to _get it?!_"

Draco swallowed painfully, and for a brief moment, something other than resentment showed in his eyes. "Oh, I get it, all right. I feel like something is ripping my insides out and there isn't a bloody thing I can do about it. You and Dumbledore won't let me go. Cutting off my arm won't help, though believe me, I've thought about it. My next best bet is to bash my head against the wall until I can't hear the voices anymore. But if I move, I'll throw up again, and I _hate_ that, especially with you sitting there looking pathetic... you're so pathetic, Potter, you can't even hate someone properly! Why did you have to do this?! _Why can't you just let me die?!_"

In answer, Harry reached up to touch Draco's hair, his fingers brushing so lightly over the tangled silver-gilt mop that the other boy could hardly feel it. But he clearly felt the surge through the link, as Harry blanketed him against the pain of the summoning charm.

"Stop it. I don't want you to do that."

"I don't care what you want," Harry answered, evenly. "I'm in control of the Blood Link, and I'll do what I want with it."

"You don't want to help me."

"Yes, I do."

"Dumbledore is making you."

"He couldn't." Harry's hand fell still, resting against the side of Draco's head, his palm almost - but not quite - brushing the other boy's cheek. "No one could make me do this, if I didn't want to. It was my choice, just like it was my choice to bring you back inside the wards in the first place. I chose then not to let you die, and you can't change my mind now by being a jerk."

"Do you expect me to thank you?"

"No. I expect you to be rude and ungrateful and obnoxious, like you always are. But I also expect you to _live_, you stupid git."

"Perfect Bloody Potter, savior of the wizarding world," Draco muttered sourly. 

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"You'd better step back, Potter."

"It won't make any difference. I can still reach you through the Blood Link."

"No... you'd really better step back." The words were barely out of his mouth when Malfoy rolled onto his side and threw up again, narrowly missing Harry, who jumped back just in time.

Sidestepping the mess on the floor, Harry moved up to the bed and clasped Draco's head, supporting it while he retched again and again. Finally, he fell still, but Harry did not move. He stayed close by the bed, cradling Draco's head with one hand, staring down at the other boy's clean, fine-boned profile.

"Thanks for the warning," he murmured.

"Don't get used to it," was the inevitable reply.

"How's your stomach?"

"Just great." 

A shudder went through him, and Harry moved closer, pulling Draco's head against his midriff. When the shuddering did not ease, Harry sent out a tendril of reassurance through the link, wrapping himself around Draco's frightened and pain-wracked mind to calm him. This time, the other boy made no protest.

They stayed this way, unmoving, the subtle strands of healing threaded through them inside and out, and waited. Dumbledore would come eventually, Harry told himself, and tell him what to do next. But until then, he would not let anything disturb the steady pulse of strength through the link or the fine, glittering web that seemed to bind him to the deathly sick Malfoy. 

Draco would not die while he was here. He had vowed it to himself, even as he had accepted Dumbledore's word that it must be this way. And now that he knew what it felt like to give or withhold healing at a whim, he knew that he would never again close the link. Never. He would never again see such pain in another human being's face and know that he had caused it.

With his free hand, Harry brushed the loose hair back from Draco's pale, sweat-dampened face, carefully peeling a few strands away from his mouth. He could see his nemesis better, now. See the shadowed hollow of his temple and the purple smudges beneath his closed eyes. See the way his lips had cracked and bled, the way his cheeks had sunken to show the sharp bones beneath his skin. Harry had never imagined that the elegant and vile Draco Malfoy could look so fragile or so helpless, or that he, Harry, would care that he did.

"I won't do it again, I swear," he murmured, too low for even Draco to hear him.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry's head snapped up. "Professor Dumbledore!" Relief washed through him at the sight of the old wizard standing just inside the screen. 

"What is it that you will not do again, if I may ask?"

Harry felt his cheeks burning, but he answered the question without hesitation. "It's my fault Malfoy's so sick. I cut off the link. It was a stupid thing to do, and I'm sorry, but I don't know how to fix it."

Dumbledore moved up to the bed and placed a hand on Malfoy's head. Harry chewed his lip and waited in gloomy silence, until Dumbledore lifted his gaze again. "This is not something you can fix, Harry, or not alone at any rate. The charm has grown too strong for him to withstand any longer. It is poisoning him."

"What will you do? Break it?"

"Not yet. First we will remove it, from his body if not from his mind, and give him some relief from its effects. But soon - very soon - he must make a final choice."

Draco stirred slightly, one eye cracking open to gaze up at Dumbledore. "What choice?" he rasped out.

"We'll discuss it later."

Draco looked as though he'd like to argue, but he didn't have the energy for it. Instead, he let his eye fall closed and muttered, "Can't you just let me go home?"

"Not if you want to live," Dumbledore answered, gently. "Do you understand how grave your condition is, Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy took a ragged breath and, to Harry's surprise, pressed his forehead a little more tightly against Harry for reassurance. "I know Potter is keeping me alive."

"He is, but the summoning charm you wear is killing you, and in the end, it will prove stronger than the both of you."

"Then break the charm."

"In time, if that is what you wish." Dumbledore's hand dropped to his shoulder and gripped it firmly. "Draco, I need you to listen very carefully. This is not the time for life and death decisions. You are not strong enough in body or mind to make them now. You need not worry about the charm or your father or the Death Eaters or anything beyond the next few minutes and what you must do to survive. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I promise you that I will do nothing irreversible, nothing that will force a choice upon you either way. And when the time comes for you to make your choice, both paths will still be open to you. You have my word on it."

"Professor..."

"Yes?"

"Will it hurt?"

"Yes."

Malfoy took a ragged breath and whispered, very softly, "Can Potter stay?"

"He will stay. Now try to relax while I fetch Professor Flitwick. We need his expertise for this."

Harry did not watch them remove the charm. He could not bear to watch, though he lived every second of the ordeal, regardless. He could not close the link, so he could not block out the molten agony that poured through it or silence the screams that rang in his head. Not since Voldemort had hit him with the Cruciatus Curse had Harry felt such pain, and in its way, this was worse, because it was someone else's pain and he could do nothing to help but share it.

It took four wizards - McGonagall, Snape, Dumbledore and Flitwick - to accomplish the delicate task of removing the charm, and it took everything Harry had inside of him to get through it. He sat to Draco's right, his hands clenched on the carved wooden arms of his chair and his eyes screwed tightly shut, choking on the sweet-sour stink of burning flesh, praying that it would be over quickly.

A sudden, tearing cry brought his eyes open and his head up with a start. He had been listening so intently to the madness inside his own head that he had not expected to hear anything from the outside, and the cry went through him like a hot blade.

"_Harry!_"

He turned to stare at Draco, eyes wide with shock. The other boy did not look at him, did not seem aware of him at all, but as another burst of agony struck him, he threw his head back screamed, "_Harry!!_"

Harry reached out instinctively to touch him. Draco's skin was burning hot to the touch, and his body was utterly still, rigid under Harry's fingers, locked in place by McGonagall's binding hex. Harry fastened both hands around Draco's arm, leaned over to press his forehead to the backs of his own hands, shut his eyes, and threw every particle of strength he possessed into the link. As he emptied himself into the other boy's body, he chanted silently, over and over again, _We aren't going to die... we can do this... we aren't going to die..._

"That's it!" Flitwick's shrill, triumphant cry came to Harry from a very long way off. "I've got it!"

The pain that surged so viciously between the linked bodies of the two boys abruptly ebbed, and Harry lifted his head, gasping in relief. He blinked to clear his vision and was surprised to find that his eyes were clogged with tears. Freeing one hand, he pushed his glasses up and mopped his face with his sleeve. When he settled his glasses again, he saw Dumbledore holding something on his gloved palm that shone innocently in the candlelight. The summoning charm.

"Excellent." Dumbledore gave a tired smile and dropped the charm into what looked like a simple velvet bag. "Poppy, if you would."

Madam Pomfrey was instantly beside the bed, a tray of salves and dressings in her hands. Snape materialized by Draco's pillow and lifted his head to pour something down his throat. Draco did not stir, and Harry felt a moment of blind panic hit him. Then he sensed the other boy's presence through the link - battered, exhausted, huddled so far into himself that Harry had to hunt to find him, but definitely there - and he relaxed. 

"What shall we do with that?" McGonagall asked, nodding at the bag that held the charm.

"It must stay close to Mr. Malfoy, so I suggest that Mr. Potter take charge of it." As he spoke, Dumbledore smiled at Harry and held out the bag to him. Harry paled and drew away from it, eyeing it in horror. "Don't be afraid, Harry. It's quite harmless, as long as you don't touch it with your bare skin."

He glanced down at Malfoy's ghastly face. "But..." 

"It cannot reach you, unless you allow it to bond with you. And it can only do that if you handle it. This bag will shield you from its heat." When Harry still hesitated, he added, softly, "You and this charm have something in common, Harry. You are both tied to Draco and cannot leave him, or he will be crippled, even killed, by the loss. Take it, please, and keep it safe for him."

Reluctantly, Harry extended his hand and took the bag from Dumbledore. The charm felt just as heavy now as it had when Draco wore it, and Harry had to clutch it tightly to keep from dropping it. The velvet felt oddly warm against his skin but not uncomfortably so, and he could not feel any outward pull from the charm. It still called to Malfoy, as Harry could sense through the link, but the call was muted and the physical torment it had caused was fading into the more normal pain of burns and exhaustion. Even the Dark spells woven into it were weaker now, as though the charm's separation from its host had stretched them to the breaking point.

Harry slipped it into the pocket of his pajama shirt, where it sat heavily against his ribs.

"Now it is time for both of you to rest," Dumbledore said. 

In the aftermath of his tremendous outpouring of power, Harry was beginning to feel lightheaded and rather disconnected from his own body. He had trouble following people with his eyes as they moved and trouble focusing on their faces. 

"Into bed with you, young man," Madam Pomfrey urged.

Harry blinked at her sleepily and shook his head. "I'll stay here." His tongue had gone numb, and his words came out sounding fuzzy.

"Don't be silly, Potter."

"It's all right, Poppy. He'll sleep as well there as in his own bed." Dumbledore circled the bed to reach him and gently slid the glasses off his face. 

Madam Pomfrey forced him to drink something that tasted like pumpkin juice, and McGonagall put a blanket around his shoulders. Someone - he thought it was Snape, but he was having trouble keeping track of which adult-sized blob was which - helped Malfoy turn onto his side and settled his bandaged left arm against his chest, protected by the curve of his body. Another someone blew out the candles, leaving only the glow of the fire to light the space.

"Keep a close eye on them, Poppy. I don't want them left alone. And call me when they wake up."

"Yes, Headmaster. Is there anything special they need?"

"Just sleep."

Harry laid his head down on the mattress and closed his eyes. He could feel Malfoy's breath on the back of his head, stirring his hair just enough to tickle. He yawned and slipped his fingers around the other boy's wrist again as his eyes fell closed. The tickle in his hair was comforting, telling him that Draco was still breathing. As long as Draco was breathing, they were both still alive. And Harry had nothing to worry about.

That was his last conscious thought before he tumbled into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**__**

To be continued...


	6. Parley

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Author's Note: Thank you all, again, for your comments and reviews! You're getting two chapters for the price of one today. I had originally planned 6 and 7 as one chapter, but it got out of control and needed splitting. So here are the next two installments for your reading enjoyment...

To **razor-flavoured candy** - please don't apologize for posting thoughtful criticism! I'm happy to hear what you have to say and happy to consider it in my writing. Chapter 7 should answer your questions about Dumbledore's motivations. You'll have to decide for yourself whether or not they're convincing. :) 

No one should feel shy about including questions or criticism in a review. I'm an opinionated person, so I may not agree with you, but I'll listen and I'll discuss it openly, with no hard feelings on my side! 

Enjoy! -- CC

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Chapter 6: _Parley_

Albus Dumbledore stood at the top of the wide, stone steps, framed by the open doors of Hogwarts castle. He had his wand thrust through his belt, and while he carried no other weapon or symbol of authority, power sat upon his shoulders like a glittering cloak. His face, usually so cheerful and prone to smiles, was set in uncompromising lines and the blue eyes gazing through his half-moon spectacles were grave.

He watched as five tall, sinister figures, all cloaked and hooded in black, came up the graveled drive from the gates. Four of them were Dementors, and it was a testament to Dumbledore's unassailable strength that he neither quailed before them nor reached for his wand to protect himself. He had no need of Patronus Charms to withstand their malice. The Dementors halted a few paces back from the steps and ranged themselves in a loose crescent.

The fifth figure continued forward until his black cloak brushed the lowest step, then he halted. He lifted his head to gaze up at the Headmaster from the deep shadows of his hood and spoke in a harsh, cold voice. "I come, in the name of Lord Voldemort, to treat with you, Albus Dumbledore."

"To what purpose?"

"To protect innocent lives."

"That is not Voldemort's way, nor would I trust any bargain made in his name," Dumbledore answered. "Speak in your own name, Lucius, and perhaps we will have something to discuss."

The Death Eater stared up at him for a moment, then lifted gloved hands to push back his hood. He had long, immaculate, silver-gilt hair tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon, arctic grey eyes and clean, fine features that would have been handsome had they not been stamped with a permanent sneer. The look he gave Dumbledore would have blasted a lesser wizard to smoking ruin.

"You are surrounded, Dumbledore. Your castle is besieged. Your pitiful collection of weaklings who call themselves Masters cannot withstand the might of the Dark Lord, and you have no option but to surrender. Put yourself in my hands, and I will spare the lives of all those inside the castle."

"All of them?"

"It is you I want."

Dumbledore eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head sadly. "How many times did you try to lie to me when you were a student here, Lucius? And how many times did I see through your lies? No, I will not surrender to you, nor give the lives entrusted to me to your tender care."

"You are as much a fool as ever, Dumbledore." Malfoy sneered.

"Perhaps I am." The blue eyes twinkled with sudden humor, laughing at something Dumbledore did not share with the Death Eater. "Time will tell. And now, I shall return to my besieged castle and doomed innocents, unless you have something else to say. Something more to the purpose."

Malfoy ground his teeth in fury, his eyes trying to bore a hole through Dumbledore's forehead. "I do!"

Dumbledore halted his move to turn away and gazed politely down at the other wizard.

"What of our children?" Malfoy demanded.

"I thought we had established that I would not give my students into your keeping."

"I am not speaking of your students, but of _our children_. They have sent us owls, asking to come home, and we have sent letters requesting their release. You have no right to hold them here against their will and ours."

"Indeed, I do not. And I will not, but neither will I push them out the doors of Hogwarts into the arms of such creatures as those." He nodded toward the Dementors. "If you would have your children returned to you, withdraw the Dementors from the school grounds and give me assurances of safety for all those who choose to leave."

"You are not in a position to dictate terms!"

Dumbledore's brows rose in a fair imitation of Malfoy's own haughty expression. "I control the wards. That puts me in the position to say who passes through them." The brows came down and Dumbledore's face relaxed. "But enough of this sparring, Lucius. I am not dictating terms to you; I am stating simple fact. It is my duty to protect these children - all of them - and I cannot let them leave the castle unless I know they will reach their families unharmed. You do not want your own son running afoul of a Dementor on the way to the front gate, do you?"

Malfoy's fists clenched and unclenched in helpless anger. "Send Draco out here, right now, and I'll grant you safe passage for the others."

Dumbledore shook his head, his face implacable. "I cannot do that."

"Do you hold my son hostage, then?" Malfoy growled.

"You know me better than that, Lucius. I don't make war on children."

Malfoy sprang onto the first step, reaching for the wand in his sleeve, his eyes burning with rage. "Send him to me, or I swear by the hand of the Dark Lord, I'll..."

Dumbledore's wand appeared in his hand, and Malfoy froze, one foot lifted to find the next stair. Under Dumbledore's stern gaze, he slowly lowered his foot and stepped backward onto the drive. Dumbledore lowered his wand but did not put it back in his belt. "That was wise."

"It changes nothing." Malfoy spat, his voice a hiss of pent up fury. "I come to parley, and so I cannot punish you here and now. But if I leave these grounds without my son, you will pay for it, Dumbledore. _You will pay!_"

"Be quiet, Lucius. I am not impressed by your threats, and I am not going to hand Draco over to you, no matter how loudly you demand it. So I suggest that you stop wasting time and listen to what I have to say."

Again, Malfoy's hands clenched and unclenched against his thighs, as he struggled to bottle up his fury. "Speak your piece."

"I have already promised the students that any of them who choose to leave may do so, once I have permission from their parents. I am prepared to open the wards and let them leave as early as tonight, if you and I can agree on how best to protect them."

"They don't need protection! They need their freedom!"

"Not all of them belong to you and your Death Eaters."

Malfoy glared up at him and mocked, savagely, "We do not make war on children."

"But that is precisely what you are doing."

"Send them out. We will not harm them."

"Not even the Muggle-borns? The children of your foes?" He paused for effect, then added softly, "Harry Potter?" At the tightening of Malfoy's face, he shook his head and went on, "No, Lucius, I will not trust to the mercy of Voldemort so easily. I will have your sworn oath, sealed by magic, before I send one child out of this castle."

"What must I swear?"

"That you will withdraw the Dementors from both Hogwarts and Hogsmeade until the children and their families are safely away. That every child who steps out of these doors will be given safe passage to Hogsmeade, put on the Hogwarts Express, and allowed to reach London unmolested. And that those parents who choose to come to Hogsmeade to meet their children will be guaranteed the same safe passage."

"Is that all?"

"There is one other thing. While this is taking place, there will be no attacks on Hogwarts or on anyone remaining within its walls. We have a ceasefire in effect until the train has left Hogsmeade with everyone safely aboard. If I see so much as one Dementor or hear a whisper of a rumor about action taken against the passengers on that train, I will consider the ceasefire broken and will demand satisfaction from you. Do you understand me?"

"I understand."

"Then make your choice. Swear or be gone, and take those foul creatures with you."

Malfoy stood very still, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore but unseeing, his face a mask of frustration and cold fury. Dumbledore remained equally still, though his eyes were alight and piercing as they studied Malfoy's face. At last, the Death Eater stirred. He turned to glance over his shoulder at the Dementors, then scanned the high windows of the castle, as if looking for a face at one of them. When he looked at Dumbledore again, he had resumed his emotionless, superior mask.

"I will swear, but so will you."

"What oath would you have from me?"

"That you will hold no child in Hogwarts against his will."

Dumbledore nodded. "Of course."

"Come then. Let us have done."

Dumbledore came lightly down the stairs and halted one step above Malfoy, so that he looked down into the man's pale, composed face. "Your dagger, if you please."

Malfoy reached into his robe and withdrew a slim, razor-edged knife, its haft worked in different colors of gold and carved into intricate shapes, set with flashing gems. He offered it to Dumbledore across his forearm. The old wizard took the dagger, and Malfoy pulled the black, leather glove from his right hand. Then he extended his bare palm.

The dagger's point bit swiftly into the ball of Malfoy's thumb. The Death Eater waited a moment for the blood to well up thickly in the cut, then he reached up and smeared a diagonal line of blood across Dumbledore's left palm. Dumbledore pierced his own thumb and painted a line across Malfoy's palm. With a flick of his wand, he set the dagger hovering in the air between them, point down, darkened with their mingled blood. 

Once again, Malfoy extended his hand and waited, face impassive, as Dumbledore traced a pattern across his bloodied palm with his wand, murmuring the words of an ancient spell as he worked. Lines of purple fire appeared in the center of Malfoy's hand, forming a complex figure. Dumbledore repeated the process, drawing the figure on his own bloodied palm and speaking the words that formed the oath.

Finally, Dumbledore held up his left hand, palm out, and gazed intently into Malfoy's upturned face. Malfoy hesitated for only a moment before lifting his right hand and placing it an inch or two from Dumbledore's. Between their palms, the runes glowed fiercely. Then, as one, they brought their hands together and pressed them palm to palm. Purple sparks shot from between their fingers, and a shimmering net of light spread to enclose their joined hands. 

Dumbledore smiled. When he spoke, his voice was mild, but it rang with power and sent a shiver over Malfoy's body. "It is done. I am bound by my oath to you, Lucius Malfoy, in life and death, by blood and fire."

"In life and death, by blood and fire," Malfoy answered.

"If I should break it, my life is yours."

"And mine is yours."

Dumbledore tapped their hands with his wand, and the light vanished. Malfoy snatched his hand away as if it had been burned. Another wave of the wand, and Malfoy's dagger dropped neatly into his hand. Its point was now clean.

"Get back to your master, Lucius. I will send you an owl when we are ready."

Malfoy slipped his dagger into his robes and pulled on his glove in short, savage jerks. "If I do not see my son come through that gate with the others, I will know you are forsworn, Dumbledore, and I will come for more than your life. I will claim your soul with it!"

"Ah." Dumbledore smiled at his private joke again and shook his head. "Draco will make his own choice, and we will both abide by it. I have sworn it, have I not? Goodbye, Lucius."

Malfoy threw him one more burning glare then spun on his heel and stalked away. The Dementors followed him down the curving drive toward the distant gates. Dumbledore watched them go. He did not turn away until they had passed through the gates and the outer wards, and the wards had closed behind them. Then he climbed the stairs toward the wide archway and open doors.

As he stepped into the entry hall, Minerva McGonagall and Alastor Moody appeared from their places to either side of the front doors. Both held their wands, and McGonagall looked haggard with strain. Moody's face was too heavily scarred to reflect any emotion. Dumbledore gave them a slightly weary smile and headed for the Great Hall.

"He accepted your terms?" McGonagall asked, as she hurried to keep up with his long strides.

"He had no choice. And I do believe him when he says that Voldemort has no interest in these children. Those few who might be in danger will be staying in Hogwarts anyway."

"Potter."

"And Granger, the Weasleys, Longbottom. Those whose parents pose a real threat to Voldemort's forces know better than to venture out of the castle and away from our protection."

"What of Malfoy?"

Dumbledore shot her a questioning glance. "Which one?"

"The one in the dungeons, of course," she snapped.

Moody, who stumped along at Dumbledore's other side, his wooden claw-foot thudding loudly on the marble floor, interjected, "I say we keep young Malfoy here, along with the rest of his cronies. Those kids are all the leverage we have against an all-out assault, and you know it, Albus."

Dumbledore paused to close the doors to the Hall and turned to face the group of teachers confronting him. The entire staff of Hogwarts was there, waiting to hear the outcome of his parley with the Death Eaters. None of them spoke, but their faces were full of questions and alarm.

"Lucius has agreed to give the students safe passage and has taken the oath." A ripple of noise went through the group, but it was not a relieved or happy sound. "I will arrange for them to go tonight. The Hogwarts Express will leave Hogsmeade for London at midnight, so we should have the students packed and ready by eleven. That will give us time to owl their parents."

"I still say we keep them," Moody growled. "If they want their precious children so badly, make them come and get them."

Dumbledore answered him patiently. "I will not keep hostages, Alastor."

"Then you're a fool. The minute Malfoy gets his hands on that weasel son of his, he'll hit us with everything he's got."

"He's already done that and failed. And he's already proven that his son's presence in the castle is no deterrent to an attack. Need I remind you that he launched two of them while Draco was here? No, the children will leave tonight."

Moody glared at him but offered no further argument.

"Now, the next order of business is the wards. Alastor has mastered the power balance and is ready to bring all of us into the pattern. Once that is done, we can extend the inner wards to the entire castle and let the students out of the dungeons. I suggest that we postpone this effort until after midnight. We concentrate on getting those children who wish to leave on their way, then we meet in my dungeon office to build the passive ward pattern. How long will that take, Alastor?"

Moody grunted and rolled his magic eye at the gathered faculty. "A few hours, working with two or three at a time."

"Excellent. If all goes well, we will have the wards in place by morning. The students may have a good night's sleep in the dungeons, then move back to their dormitories tomorrow. And Poppy can have her hospital wing back."

McGonagall started to say something but thought better of it and shut her mouth with a snap. Dumbledore smiled at her. 

"Back to the dungeons, then, and hop to it. I want the Heads of Houses to talk to your students and bring me a list of all those who plan to leave. We need to get those owls out as soon as possible. Thank you all."

The staff, dismissed by his genial words, began drifting toward the dungeon stairs. Dumbledore waved McGonagall and Snape over to him, and they waited until the room had emptied before they moved toward the door. 

"Are Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy still sleeping?" Dumbledore asked, as they crossed the entry hall.

Snape nodded. "No signs of life from either of them. I'd guess we have some hours yet before they wake up. Are you thinking of sending Draco with the other Slytherins?"

"If he wants to go, yes. But he needs to know all the consequences of his choice, on both sides, and we've only bought ourselves a small window of time where the summoning charm is concerned."

Snape grimaced slightly and said, "Then it's time for him to pick sides."

All three of them walked down the dungeon passage in silence for a moment, then McGonagall said, harshly, "I remember a time when children were allowed to be children, and they didn't have to pick sides for anything more weighty than a Quidditch match."

"Something else Voldemort has taken from us," Dumbledore murmured, as he pushed open the door of his makeshift office. "Childhood." Pausing in the doorway, he turned somber eyes on his colleagues. "I'll speak to Draco as soon as possible. Whatever he decides, I'll need your help."

McGonagall nodded, her lips pressed tightly together and her fierce eyes strangely bright. "I'll be in the main dungeon with the Gryffindors."

"And I'll be with my House," Snape said.

As they walked away together, Dumbledore reflected that things had come to a strange pass when Snape and McGonagall were united in their concern over the fate of Lucius Malfoy's son. A very strange pass, indeed. Little would Voldemort guess what his violence had wrought! Certainly not what he had intended. Now, if they could only manage to save the boy...

**__**

To be continued...


	7. Fork in the Road

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Chapter 7: _Fork in the Road_

Several hours of sleep had done wonders for Harry. He still felt rather limp and drained from more than two days of constantly feeding power into Draco, but the long sleep had cleared his head and revived his spirits. It had also given him an enormous appetite, and he was making heroic inroads in the plate of shepherd's pie Madam Pomfrey had brought him.

Draco looked better, too - still unnaturally pale, but without the purple shadows in his face or the glazed sickness in his eyes. And he was sitting up in bed, cross-legged, with a plate in front of him and a fork in his hand. Harry wouldn't go so far as to say he was _eating_, but at least he was looking at the food without turning green. The removal of the charm seemed to have done him a lot of good. 

Harry unconsciously pressed his hand against his pocket. The charm felt warm and heavy against his skin. He could hear its call echoing distantly through the link, and with casual ease, he sent out a tendril of thought to quiet it. Draco threw him a glance from the corner of his eyes but said nothing, and Harry pretended that nothing had happened.

Harry sat in his ornately carved wooden chair, pulled up close to Draco's bed, with his plate sitting on the mattress. He had not returned to his own bed all day and felt no desire to do so now. Somehow, the reach of the Blood Link had shrunk during his hours of sleep. Or maybe it was while they were removing the charm. He didn't know, exactly. He only knew that he didn't want to be more than a few feet from Draco at any given time. So he slept in the chair and ate off the mattress and didn't strain the link or either one of them by venturing away from the other boy.

Harry had finished his own supper and was starting in on Draco's when Dumbledore appeared. He came around the screen, smiling at the two boys. "Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter."

Dumbledore looked his usual, genial self, but Harry thought he detected a current of outright worry in him. Draco must have sensed it too, because the look he turned on the Headmaster was distinctly nervous. 

Before either boy could respond to his greeting, he strode over to the bed and fixed Draco with his piercing gaze. "You look much better, Mr. Malfoy." His long-fingered hand rested on Draco's head and tilted it up so the wizard could look directly into his eyes. "Much better. Did you enjoy the shepherd's pie? I thought it particularly good tonight."

Draco seemed thrown by the question. Unlike Harry, he had spent little time with the Headmaster except when in serious trouble, so he was not used to Dumbledore's casual manners, nor to his habit of making random, inconsequential remarks. Draco opened his mouth to answer but could think of nothing to say. 

"You really must eat, you know," Dumbledore chided, softly, still looking intently into the boy's wary eyes. "Not that a second helping wouldn't do Harry some good, as well."

"I did eat." 

Harry choked on his mouthful of potatoes at this blatant lie but didn't say anything.

Dumbledore smiled in a way that told Harry he was not fooled for a moment and looked around the small space enquiringly. "It appears that you have the only chair, Mr. Potter. May I borrow it?"

"Sure!" Harry scrambled out of the chair and collected the dishes from the bed. He could find no place to put them and was about to dump them all on the hearth when Dumbledore pulled out his wand and made them disappear. "Umm, thanks, Professor."

"Don't mention it. Sit down, Harry. I have something to discuss with Draco, and I can't have you flapping about like a nervous vulture."

Without stopping to think about it, Harry clambered onto Draco's bed and sat down on the lower half of the mattress, his bare feet tucked under him for warmth. Draco showed no outward reaction, but Harry felt a slight wash of relief go through him and knew that Draco was glad he hadn't left him to face Dumbledore alone.

Dumbledore settled into the chair and leaned forward to prop his elbows on the bed. His eyes, as clear as blue glass and as keen as a polished blade, gazed at Draco from over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "I am very sorry to do this to you, Draco, but we have run out of time."

Draco answered him in a flat tone that betrayed his underlying fear. "Do what?"

"Ask you to choose. I have delayed as long as I dare, to give you time to recover. You are stronger since we removed the charm, and you will continue to grow stronger for a while, but not indefinitely. As long as the charm exists, it is a danger to you."

"Why didn't you break it this morning?"

"For a number of reasons," Draco opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him and went on, "which I will now give you. I will give you all my reasons, all your options, and the answers to all your questions. Then I will give you time to consider before you choose, but not much time. We do not have much time, any of us, and you least of all. But for now, I only want you to listen. Will you do that?"

Draco nodded, and Dumbledore smiled approvingly at him.

"Here is the situation as it stands, Draco. Your father, along with Voldemort's Death Eaters and the Dementors, is right outside Hogwarts. He wants you to come to him, and I have agreed to let you go, if that is what you want. But you do not have to go, simply because your parents send for you. If you choose to stay here, I will give you my protection and help, regardless of who threatens you. This is not the time for family demands to decide your future. This is war - a war to decide the fate of our world - and each of us must choose the side on which we will fight."

Draco swallowed painfully, and his eyes strayed to Harry's face. "You want me to choose between you and my father."

"Between the forces of Darkness and those who oppose it, but yes, it comes down to a choice between me and your father. Lucius will never forsake the Dark Lord, even for you. If you want to follow him, you must follow Voldemort."

"You said... you said you'd explain about the charm."

"Yes. I did not break the charm this morning for three reasons. The first is that I have no idea what it will do to you. You have worn it since earliest childhood, and it has become a part of you, woven into your mind and body. To break it could mean your death."

"It's true," Harry interjected softly. "I've seen it. Inside you, I mean, through the link."

Draco's face had turned sickly again. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, holding on tightly to hide the shaking in his limbs. He looked at Dumbledore, his eyes dark and wounded. "Could it really kill me?"

"Yes. Or it might simply vanish, taking all its threads of power with it. The point is that we simply don't know, and I won't risk your life without your full understanding and agreement. And I certainly won't do it, if it isn't necessary, which brings me to the second reason.

"The charm's sole purpose is to draw you to your father. It has been torturing you because you did not obey its summons. If you do obey and go to Lucius, the charm will become inert and no threat to you. So there is no point in breaking it and risking your life, if you plan to return to your father anyway."

"What's the third reason?" Draco whispered.

"When I break the charm, your father will know it. He will know that his hold on you is gone, that you are lost to him, and that may well prove the death of you in another way."

"How?"

"So far, the charm has remained whole, and you have remained tied to your father. He blames me for your failure to answer the summons, not you, and he is confident that you will come when you can. But if the charm is broken..."

Draco's face paled alarmingly. "He'll think I betrayed him!"

"That is what I fear, though it is by no means certain. Had we broken it immediately, he would have assumed that we destroyed it out of fear and still thought you blameless. But you were gravely injured, and we could not risk it then. Now that you have regained some strength, we could try to break it, but that might put you at risk from your father. Or, more likely, from Voldemort, who is a good deal less understanding and compassionate than Lucius. Where Lucius might still blame me and hope for your rescue, Voldemort would write you off as a bad bargain and consign you to the flames with the rest of us."

"So, my only chance to stay alive and sane is to go back to my father."

"If you can get to him alive."

Draco pressed his forehead to his bent knees and mumbled, thickly, "Just tell me all of it. Please."

"Here it is in a nutshell. If you choose to return to your father, I will give you the charm, sever the Blood Link, and send you home."

"You can't cut the link!" Harry blurted out. "He'll die without it!"

"Probably, but hopefully he will have enough time. He's stronger, and some of his injuries have begun to heal properly just since this morning."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Draco said into his flannel-clad knees.

Dumbledore smiled at his bent head. "My apologies. There is a good chance that you can get as far as Hogsmeade and your parents without endangering your life. But once you are outside the Hogwarts grounds, you are your parents' responsibility and I cannot help you."

Harry noticed that Dumbledore carefully said nothing about what Draco's parents might or might not do to save him. Malfoy might want Draco back, but would he leave the Death Eaters here while he rushed off to St. Mungo's with Draco? Would Voldemort let him go, even to save his son's life? Staring at the small, huddled form of the injured boy, Harry felt his stomach clench with new fear.

Draco spoke without lifting his head. "If I stay?"

"Then you remain linked with Harry and we break the charm. When the charm and Dark spells trapped by it are gone, Harry's power can speed your healing."

"If I'm still alive."

"If you're still alive." Dumbledore reached over to touch Draco's arm and waited until he lifted his head. Then he said, "I told you that I would leave all your options open to you, and that is what I have tried to do. If you want to go home, I will send you home with no cloud of suspicion over you and with the best hope I can give of survival. What happens to you then is not for me to say. If you choose to stay, I will do everything in my power to bring you safely through this and protect you from both your father and Voldemort. But the choice must be yours, and it must be freely made."

Draco's eyes moved to Harry's face, and there was a kind of panicked pleading in them that closed Harry's throat up tight. "How am I supposed to choose?"

Dumbledore pushed himself to his feet and rested a hand on Draco's shoulder. His voice was as gentle as Harry had ever heard it. "I can't help you with that, my boy, but maybe Harry can. Like you, he has been forced to grow up ahead of schedule by things outside his control."

Harry shook his head, fighting the panic growing in him. It was equal parts Draco's and his own, and it made his voice crack as he stammered, "I don't... I can't..."

Dumbledore paid him no mind. All his attention was on Draco. "I can give you time to think about it, but not a great deal. It would be best to go with the other Slytherins if you plan to go at all."

Draco licked suddenly dry lips and whispered, "When?"

"Tonight, before midnight. It will take a few minutes to get you packed and ready, and to sever the Blood Link, so I'll need an answer by eleven o'clock."

Draco dropped his head and buried his face in his bent knees again, giving no answer. Dumbledore favored him with a long, measuring look, then nodded a silent farewell to Harry and moved back around the screen. 

Harry sat very quietly on the end of the bed, staring at Draco's bent head and wondering why no emotion was coming through the link to him. He could feel the summoning charm and the insistent pain of unhealed wounds, but no emotion, no presence, nothing that he could identify as Draco. The silence and blankness stretched on for several minutes, while Harry's chest grew tight with pain and his fists knotted in helpless frustration. But still the link was empty, as if Draco Malfoy had been erased somehow.

Finally, Harry could stand it no longer. "Malfoy..." he began.

A surge of anger, swift and hot, lanced through him as Draco's control slipped. "Don't say it, Potter."

"I just..."

"I know what you're going to say." Draco's head came up, and he fixed wild, winter-grey eyes on Harry's face. "You're going to tell me what a bastard my father is. You're going to _gloat_ because it was my bastard of a father who did this to me and forced me choose which way I want to die. Well, guess what? _I don't want to hear it!_"

Harry couldn't stop himself from reaching out to Draco through the link. He couldn't see the agony burning in his eyes without doing something to calm it. "That's not what I was going to say," he murmured.

"You and Dumbledore, you have the answers to everything. You decide that my father is evil, and I'm supposed accept that. Forget that I love him. Forget that he's my father. Because for you it's all so bloody _easy!_ Perfect Bloody Potter, savior of the wizarding world, who never made a wrong choice or loved the wrong person in his whole, perfect life!"

"I never thought it would be easy." Harry opened the link a bit more and sent another, stronger wave of reassurance through it. "And I know you can't stop loving your father, just because Dumbledore says he's evil." 

Either his words or the power flowing through the link were having an effect. The silver flames in Draco's eyes slowly died, and he seemed to deflate, his body growing smaller and more drawn in on itself as his anger faded. 

Harry went on, earnestly, "I do hate Lucius Malfoy, and I won't pretend otherwise. But I have the luxury of hating him, because he _isn't_ my father." 

"He _is_ mine, and I don't hate him. I don't."

"I get that. I'm not going to say a word about him, okay?"

"Okay."

"You have to decide what to do, and I won't try to interfere, I swear. There's only one thing I wanted to say, that doesn't have anything to do with your father or Dumbledore or who's going to win the war or..." Harry broke off and took a deep breath. His heart was suddenly slamming against his ribs, and his voice threatened to crack, but he had to speak before he lost the chance or the courage to do it. Willing his voice to hold steady, he said, "For whatever it's worth, I don't want you to go." His eyes flicked up to Draco's face then away again, while his cheeks flushed a dull red. "I just thought you should know that. In case it... matters."

Neither of them spoke, and the wash of emotion through the link was too confused for Harry to sort it out. He knew his own feelings were in the same chaotic state, and he was frankly terrified to look too closely at them. He stared intently at his own hands, folded tightly in his lap, and wished that Draco would say something - except that he was appalled by his own idiocy and terrified of hearing the Slytherin tell him off in that acid, sneering, cutting voice of his. 

He could feel the formless wash of emotion in the other boy beginning to settle, could feel him pull himself together. Any second now, he would say something, and Harry braced himself against the inevitable, wicked lash of Malfoy's tongue.

But it was another voice entirely that spoke to him, shattering the charged atmosphere.

"Hallo, Malfoy. Potter."

Harry's head came up with a jerk and he stared blankly at Vincent Crabbe. The Slytherin was sidling around the screen, clutching something in his ham-like hands and shooting furtive looks between Harry and Draco. At the sound of his voice, Harry felt Draco's guard come up instinctively. The walls slammed into place, and Draco was once more out of reach. Harry swallowed his disappointment and nodded at Crabbe, his face carefully neutral.

"Crabbe. To what do we owe the honor?" Malfoy spoke in his habitual drawl, but there was no sarcasm in it.

"You look better," Crabbe declared.

"Candlelight is very flattering."

"No, I mean you really do look better. I was scared before. I thought you were going to... uhhh..."

The sincerity and concern in Crabbe's voice startled Draco. His eyebrows rose and his face softened very slightly. "Thanks. I feel better."

"Look, I brought you some stuff." Crabbe held out his hand, and Harry saw that he carried a small leather case - like a shaving kit. It was made of fine-grained black leather and had a large M stamped in silver on one corner. Like everything Malfoy owned, it looked outrageously expensive. 

Draco eyed the case in some confusion, not sure what to make of Crabbe's gesture. "What stuff?" 

Crabbe tossed it on the bed with a diffident shrug. "You know, a toothbrush and a comb. Stuff like that. I thought you might want them, while you're stuck here. Maybe comb your hair, or something."

"Yeah. Okay." 

"Aren't you going to comb your hair?" Crabbe asked, a trifle too anxiously.

Draco shrugged and reached for the bag. Harry had never noticed before that he was left-handed, but it was obvious now when his left hand was too sore to use and he had to rely on his awkward right one. He fumbled at the zipper, unable to work it properly with only one hand, and Harry casually reached over to hold the case still for him. Draco opened the bag, dug around in it for a moment, then pulled out a large comb and held it up for Crabbe to see. 

"Got it. Thanks."

Crabbe gave him a relieved smile. "Good. Well. I'll see you, Malfoy."

Draco nodded, his face unreadable. Harry stared after Crabbe's retreating back in a good deal of surprise. When he turned back to Draco, the other boy had dropped the comb on the bed and was rummaging in the case again.

"Is he always so concerned about your personal grooming habits?" Harry asked.

"No. There's a letter in here." Draco slid a piece of parchment out of the bag and stared at it, thoughtfully. 

"You want me to go away so you can read it?" Harry asked.

Draco just shook his head and started unfolding the parchment as best he could one-handed. Whoever put it in the bag had folded it several times to form a small, fat rectangle, and it took Draco a few tries to get it open. He held it carelessly, so that Harry could have read it without much trouble, but Harry politely refrained from looking at the ink strokes that covered the page.

After a minute or two, Draco tossed him the letter and said, "Go on, then. Read it."

Surprised, Harry turned it the right way around and stared at the clumsy writing. 

__

Malfoy,

I thought you should know that Dumbledore is letting us go tonight - anybody who wants to, which means most of Slytherin House. Our parents are supposed to meet us in Hogsmeade and take us home on the train. If you want to go, you better talk to Dumbledore soon. After tonight, it might be too late.

The Slytherins know about you and Potter.

"Know _what_ about you and Potter?" Harry demanded.

Draco just shrugged, and Harry went back to reading.

__

Blaise is really hacked off and wants to make trouble. She plans to tell your father that Dumbledore is keeping you locked up with Harry Potter and won't let your mates in to see you. I asked her what good that would do, but she wouldn't tell me. You know Blaise. Maybe she just wants to get your father so mad he ruptures something. But if there really is something going on with you two, maybe you should warn Potter. I'd want to know if Lucius Malfoy was out to get me.

There was some stuff I wanted to talk to you about, important stuff, but I can't do it with Potter around, so it looks like I'll have to figure it out on my own. Dumbledore says this is the time for all of us to think for ourselves and make our own choices. I guess he's right. I'm going to try anyway.

I'll see you around, maybe.

Crabbe

Harry read the letter through again, frowning over the last paragraph. "Is it just me, or this is a pretty weird letter?"

"It's typical Crabbe. Weird and vague."

"Well, it was nice of him to warn you about Blaise, anyway."

"Not like I can do anything about it."

Draco gave an irritated grunt, and Harry looked up from the parchment to see him struggling to pull the comb through a huge snarl in his hair. He wasn't making much progress.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Hadn't you better wash it, before you try to comb it?"

"This is a Cleaning Comb." He tugged on the snarl again, wincing.

Harry looked at the comb with new interest. "Really? Ron gave me one of those once, but it didn't work. It just made my hair stand up in spikes."

"This one works."

Harry chuckled at the sour note in his voice. "Of course it does. It's a _Malfoy_ comb."

"Laugh all you want, but at least I don't go around looking like hedgehog." Draco gave one more tug on the comb, then pulled it out of his hair and set it down, shaking his hand to ease the cramp in his stiff muscles.

"Give it here."

Draco eyed his extended hand with deep suspicion. "Why?"

"Just give it here, Malfoy."

Draco handed him the comb, and Harry hopped off the bed to circle around the end of it. When he came to a stop behind Draco and clambered onto the mattress again, the other boy craned his neck to peer over his shoulder and demanded, "What are you doing?"

"Hold still. I can't pick these tangles out if you're twitching."

"Potter..."

Harry forcibly turned Draco's head back in the proper direction, then he took a firm grip on the comb and dragged it through a long hank of tangled, filthy blond hair. A delighted grin split his face. "It does work!"

"I told you so." Draco sounded annoyed, but he was no longer squirming. He sat very still, while Harry stroked the teeth of the comb through his hair, pausing to pick at the snarls and knots.

The comb was a lovely thing, made of polished ivory and richly inlaid with silver. It was also very heavy, and Harry understood why Draco was having trouble using it, ill and tired as he was. Harry didn't mind doing it for him. In fact, he found it oddly soothing, and he liked watching the grimy rat's nest on Draco's head turn back into the smooth, shining, shoulder-length mane he recognized. 

Draco had the most amazing hair he'd ever seen. It didn't really belong on a living person. It belonged in a painting, on some kind of Medieval archangel, with a halo made of gold leaf behind his head to make it glow when the light hit it. It looked out of place on a sixteen-year-old wizard in flannel pajamas. 

"Did you ever study Muggle art?" he asked, abruptly.

"What?"

"You know, paintings. Portraits of old Kings and Queens, angels, that kind of thing. My favorite was a painting of Richard the Third I saw in a book about the War of the Roses."

Draco gave a disgusted snort and reached up to bat away the comb. "Don't be daft, Potter. Richard the Third was a famous wizard."

Harry knocked his hand aside, chuckling, and gave the silver-gilt hair a finishing stroke. "Maybe it's the same man. Was he a hunchback?"

"No, but some people think he was really a ghoul. He ate live frogs."

"And smothered little boys with pillows?"

"What are you on about?"

"Nothing." Harry handed him the comb and came around the bed to reclaim his spot on the mattress. He shot the other boy a sideways glance and smiled to himself, ducking his head to hide it from Draco. Definitely an archangel. All he needed was a pair of wings and a really big sword. A few ethics wouldn't hurt, either, but you couldn't have everything.

Draco had upended the leather bag, strewing its contents across the blanket. Harry watched him sort through the various objects curiously, surprised at what Crabbe considered essential to Malfoy's comfort. There was a black satin ribbon with silver threads in it, a couple of rubber bands, a toothbrush, the Cleaning Comb, a bottle of purple liquid that smelled strongly of lavender, a nail file, two pairs of black socks - neatly rolled - and a signet ring set with a glowing green gem. Draco was fingering the nail file as though he were plotting a prison break with it.

Harry picked up the bottle and wrinkled his nose at it. "What's this?"

"My mother's idea of civilized living. I'm supposed to sprinkle it on the sheets so they don't smell."

Harry shot him an awed, disbelieving look. "She really wants you to pour lavender water on your sheets? That's... well..."

"Sickening. Yes, I know. If I waltzed around smelling of lavender, I'd be a social outcast."

"You're already a social outcast," Harry quipped, automatically. "Maybe you should try it, just in case it's your smell that's driving people away."

"Very funny, Potter. Why don't you try it? Maybe Weasley will give you that kiss you've been angling for..."

Harry grabbed a rubber band and shot it at him. Draco instinctively tried to block it with his left hand and gave a slight hiss at the throb of pain in his damaged limb.

"Sorry."

Draco sighed. "Stop apologizing. And stop messing with my stuff."

Harry obediently dropped the ribbon that he had been running through his fingers. Draco picked up the ring and looked at it glumly, his eyes seeming more shadowed and tired than ever. 

"Did your father give you that?" Harry asked, softly.

"Yes." He weighed it in his palm for a moment, then tossed it back onto the bed. "It's a family heirloom."

Harry hunted about for something to say that would dispel Draco's gloom and distract him from the terrible decision he faced. Not that it would help any to put it off, but Harry couldn't stand to see him looking so worn and overwhelmed. Falling back on the old standby of baiting his Slytherin rival, he flicked a finger at the pile on the blanket and said, "Do you own anything that isn't a family heirloom or outrageously expensive?"

"No." Draco smiled at him, and Harry was startled to see that there was no sneer in it. "I am a Malfoy, after all."

"Come on. You must have something you picked up off the floor, or bought in a second-hand shop just because you liked it."

"Nothing."

"What about pets? Did you ever adopt a stray kitten?"

Draco's smile widened and his eyes began to sparkle with laughter. "Can you see my father with a stray kitten in his house?"

"It does kind of boggle the imagination."

"I had a toad, once."

"Those aren't cheap. I've seen what the magic toads in Diagon Alley cost..."

"Oh, this wasn't magic. I caught it in the stream that runs at the back of the estate. He was just your basic toad, with nasty, warty bumps all over his back, but I thought he was spectacular. So I took him home and put him in a box under my bed. The house elf brought me bugs to feed him."

"What happened to him?"

"My father found out."

"Uh-oh. Did he do something awful?"

Draco's eyebrows rose. "Why would he?"

Harry flushed slightly in embarrassment. "No reason. What did he do?"

"He went to Diagon Alley and bought me the biggest, smartest, most magical magic toad he could find, and a beautiful glass tank to keep it in. Then he came home and set it up in my room, and he sat down and showed me all the things the toad could do, all the ways he was better than the plain old toad in the cardboard box. So I took the plain old toad back to the stream and let him go, and I let the house elf take care of my magic toad, because he was actually kind of boring."

"Are you sorry you let the other one go?"

Draco shrugged. "He probably found himself a nasty, warty female toad and fertilized a cartload of eggs and had a great life eating bugs around the stream. It's a nice place for toads."

Harry couldn't think of an answer to this. He felt perversely sorry for the little boy who had given up his pet to suit his father, and even more perversely sorry for both of the toads. There was nothing hurtful or unkind in the story, but it left a sour taste in Harry's mouth. Then again, everything about Lucius Malfoy left a sour taste in his mouth, and the more he got to know Draco, the more he despised his father. No one should be forced to love a creature like Lucius Malfoy by an accident of birth.

A small voice in the back of his mind whispered to Harry that he was jealous. He hated Malfoy, because Malfoy had a claim on Draco's loyalty and affection, and Harry didn't think Malfoy deserved it. If Harry had his way, Malfoy would get nothing from his son - no love, respect, trust, _nothing_ - and the loyalty Draco felt for his father would belong to Dumbledore. Then Harry could stop hating Malfoy, because he wouldn't matter a damn.

Harry shot Draco a sidelong glance and saw that he was looking very tired and ill again. He opened up the link a bit more and bled a little extra power through it. "So what does Crabbe figure you'll do with the rubber bands?" he asked, innocently.

His gambit did not have the desired effect. Draco only shook his head and began stuffing things back into the bag, one-handed. Harry obligingly helped him by picking the rubber bands out of the folds in the blanket and dropping them into the case. Then he folded up the letter and slipped it inside as well. Draco awkwardly pulled the zipper shut, then he lay back on his pillow and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

"You okay, Malfoy?"

"Go away, Potter. Please."

"I can't."

"Can you shut up, at least?"

Harry cocked his head to one side and gazed mournfully at him. "Did I say something wrong? I really didn't mean to, I swear. I'm only trying to help."

"I know that." Draco covered his eyes with one hand and lay very still for a long moment. Then he abruptly twisted onto his right side and curled up, his hands drawn into his chest protectively. His hair spilled forward to cover his face, but Harry could see his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "I just don't want to talk about it. I want to sleep. Okay?"

Harry wanted to shout at him, _No, it's not okay! You're not sleeping, you're remembering him... thinking about him... and then you're going to go to him! After everything Dumbledore has done for you, you're just going to turn your back on us and go back to that monster who pretends to care whether you live or die!_ But all he said was, "Okay." 

He climbed off the bed and sat in the chair again. Then he leaned forward and crossed his arms on the mattress, laying his head on his forearms, eyes wide open. He could see Draco's chin and jawline, see the pale strands of hair falling around his throat, and see his chest rise and fall a bit too quickly beneath his shirt. He was strung so tightly that Harry was afraid he would snap at the smallest touch. But there was nothing Harry could do to help - nothing to ease the tension in him or break the lengthening silence. He could not even venture into the link, for fear of breaking his word and influencing Draco's choice. He could only lie there, watching the other boy, and thinking in the privacy of his own head, _Please believe what I said. Please don't go._

*** *** ***

The common room was piled with trunks and bags, so that Crabbe could hardly walk from one end to the other. The usual mob of sixth-years were huddled together by the fire, talking, and Goyle waved to him as he came in. Millicent shot him a look that made the skin on the back of his neck crawl. Or maybe it wasn't Millicent that made him so jumpy. Maybe it was guilt.

"Hey, Crabbe!" Goyle called. "I brought your trunk in for you!"

"Thanks," Crabbe muttered, as he ambled over to the group.

"Where've you been?"

"Talking to Malfoy."

Blaise's face turned ugly. "Have they still got Potter watching him?"

Crabbe shrugged. "Potter was there, yeah."

"I'll bet that old bugger, Dumbledore, hasn't even told him we're leaving. Well, Mr. Malfoy will show Dumbledore what's what."

Crabbe listened to the grumbles with half an ear, grunting and nodding where expected. He knew better than to say anything. Blaise had already bitten his head off once for daring to have an opinion, and it didn't matter, anyway. There wasn't a blasted thing he could do to stop them, once Blaise put an idea into their heads. Let them rant and rave and foam at the mouth. He could use the noise as cover to think, and he had to think very hard about how he was going to do this, or he'd make a mess of it. He didn't even want to _think_ about what would happen to him, if he screwed this one up!

"No, we can't tell Snape about it," Millicent was saying. "He's too thick with Dumbledore these days."

"But he hates Potter even more than we do," Durmond pointed out.

"We don't tell _anyone_ until we find Mr. Malfoy," Blaise insisted, glaring around the group to stop any arguments. "If we tell Snape, he might keep us here to stop us. Or put Draco somewhere his father can't find him."

"Listen, Blaise, I was thinking..." Every eye in the group swiveled to stare at Crabbe in disbelief. He felt his cheeks go hot, but he held his ground and stared back at them. "I was thinking that maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Blaise snapped. "About what?"

"All of it. Dumbledore wanting to keep Malfoy away from the Slytherins. Snape being more loyal to Dumbledore than to us. And I was thinking... how smart is it for all of us to go and leave Malfoy here alone?" 

Blaise was glaring at him like he was pond scum, but Pansy looked worried. Crabbe took that as a sign that he was making some kind of sense. 

"How smart is it to stay in a castle that's about to be overrun by Dementors?" Blaise retorted.

He shrugged in his best big-dumb-oaf style and said, "I figured Mr. Malfoy would appreciate it if I stuck around to look after Draco. Maybe he'd tell the Dementors not to suck my brains out or anything."

"You?" Pansy squeaked. "You want to stay with Draco? Why _you?!_"

Crabbe shrugged again, and privately wished Pansy Parkinson to the Devil. "Why not?" Then inspiration hit, which was a rare enough thing for Crabbe that he got a bit flushed with the excitement of it. "I'm no good to anyone outside. You guys... you can talk to Mr. Malfoy, maybe help out your folks. Nobody needs me. They'll just put me on the train and send me home, and what good does that do? I'll miss all the fun." 

He was warming to his subject now, his words positively flowing. "But if I stay here, I can keep an eye on Malfoy, maybe get owls out to tell his dad where he is. Mostly, I can make sure Potter doesn't do something to him while he's so sick. I really don't trust Potter, and I'm thinking that the weirdest part of this whole thing is how Potter and Malfoy are always together. But if I hang around the hospital wing, maybe I can figure out..."

"Turned detective now, have you?" Blaise sneered, cutting him off.

Crabbe just gave her a meek, slightly embarrassed look and waited for her to make up the others' minds for them.

"Okay, so you want to stay. It's your neck if Dumbledore catches you spying on Potter."

Pansy batted her eyes at him and smiled mistily. Crabbe supposed she was trying to be charming, but she looked ridiculous. "I'm so glad Draco won't be alone! It's... it's courageous of you, Vincent!"

That was more than enough for Crabbe. He didn't intend to hang around while Pansy gushed over him and Blaise looked at him like she could read his mind. Giving them all a rather shamefaced smile, he backed away, mumbling, "I'd better get my trunk out of here."

In a few minutes, he had successfully unearthed his trunk from the pile by the door and dragged it back into the sixth-year boys' dormitory. There, alone in the cool darkness, he sank down on his bed and buried his face in his pillow to muffle his semi-hysterical laughter. He had done it! He had fooled Blaise Zabini! Now he just had to get past Snape and, if Malfoy didn't blow his cover, he was home free! Or rather, he wasn't home, which was the whole point. 

*** *** ***

"Potter?"

The soft voice took him completely by surprise and jerked him out of a light doze. Harry straightened up in his chair, shoving his glasses up his nose automatically, and turned to stare at Draco. The other boy lay curled up on his right side, eyes closed, hands drawn in to his chest. As far as Harry could tell, he had not moved in hours. But in that time, the candles had gone out, leaving the dungeon lit only by the glow of the banked fire, and Harry could no longer see his face except as a pale blur in the shadows. Harry glanced at his watch. It was eleven o'clock.

Draco spoke without opening his eyes. "Are you there?"

"I'm here." 

"I need to ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"What you said before... before Crabbe showed up..."

Harry swallowed noisily and ventured, "That I didn't want you to go?"

"Yes." Draco paused, his eyes shut and his body still. Finally, he whispered, "Did you mean it?"

"Yes."

Another long pause that stretched Harry's nerves on a rack, then he spoke again in a whisper, "Where's the charm?"

Harry touched his pocket. "Right here, with me. Do you want it back?"

"No. Give it to Dumbledore and tell him to break it."

For a moment, Harry could not breathe. He pressed his palm flat against the charm, holding it to his chest and feeling the pounding of his own heart behind it, and heard the impossible words again: _Give it to Dumbledore. Break it._

Air suddenly rushed into his lungs, and he gasped, "You're staying?" 

"Don't make me say it. Don't make me tell anybody. Just... give him the charm and tell him for me. Please, Harry."

"Of course I will!" He lurched to his feet, filled with a wild elation that took him by surprise. "Of course I will... Draco, are you _sure?_"

"I'm sure."

Harry laughed breathlessly and turned to leave, forgetting the link for a moment in his urgency to find Dumbledore and tell him of Draco's decision. But as he turned, he saw that they were not alone. Three figures stood silently at the edge of the screen - Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall - and from the expressions on their faces, it was clear to Harry that they had heard every word. He did not know how they had managed to appear so quietly, without alerting either of the boys to their presence, or why they had come at just this moment, but the sight of them brought a sob of relief from him. 

He opened his mouth to speak, then he saw Dumbledore holding his finger to his lips. Fumbling in his pocket, he grabbed the charm in its little, velvet bag and held it out to the Headmaster. Dumbledore shook his head and reached out to close Harry's fingers around it again. 

Then Dumbledore was around the screen, guiding Harry back to his chair and pushing him gently into it. He bent over Draco for a moment and turned to smile at Harry, whispering, "He's asleep."

"Already?" Harry said, blankly. He felt a perverse disappointment at Dumbledore's words. Somehow, he had thought that Draco's decision meant they were now allies and friends, ready to plot the downfall of the Dark Lord together, or at least hold a normal conversation. He had not expected the other boy to pass out cold the minute he made his choice.

Dumbledore nodded in satisfaction. "He needed to commit himself and to let go for awhile. Just let him rest, for now." Then the old wizard laid a hand on Harry's shoulder and bent close to whisper, "You've done well, Harry. Very well. Thank you."

With that, all three wizards left as silently as they had come, and Harry was alone with the sleeping Draco. He gazed at the pale smudge of the other boy's face in the darkness and felt an unbearable ache rise in his chest. Closing his eyes, he buried his face in his crossed arms on the mattress and just lay there, aching, wondering why he couldn't cry when every part of him seemed full to bursting with tears.

__

We did it, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered. _We did it. We saved him._ He did not let himself remember that Draco might still die when they broke the charm, and if he lived through that, he would be a target for Voldemort just as Harry was. Those things didn't matter, because Harry had sworn that Draco wouldn't die while he was there, and he would die himself before he broke his word. 

__

He stayed for me, the little voice whispered, even more quietly. And then, toward the link and the sleeping presence at the other end of it, _Thank you, Draco_.

*** *** ***

"Harry Potter?" Lucius Malfoy's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you certain of that?"

Blaise clenched her hands together behind her back, fighting the urge to run from the sleek, deadly man sitting in front of her. They were in a private parlor behind The Three Broomsticks, just the two of them, and Blaise found herself wishing she had not come here. She had always looked on Draco's father with interest, liking his expensive clothes, haughty manners and cold good looks. But tonight, he was frankly terrifying. 

Marshaling her courage and reminding herself that she was only doing her best to help a fellow Slytherin, she said, "Yes, sir. They've got him in one of the dungeons with Potter. Professor Snape says he was injured the night of... the night you came, sir. And I think it must be true, because Vincent Crabbe saw him and said he looked bad."

"Did you see him, Miss Zabini?"

"No, sir. Only Crabbe. But every time Crabbe tried to talk to Draco, Potter was there."

"Did Snape tell you why my son was with Potter?"

"No, sir. He wouldn't tell us anything, except that Draco wasn't coming tonight."

"Thank you, Miss Zabini." He threw her a frigid glance and drawled, "Hurry back to your father. I know he missed you."

Blaise shuffled her feet nervously and looked everywhere except at Malfoy's face. "Mr. Malfoy? Will you get Draco out?"

His voice turned silky, and the sound of it sent a thrill of horror through Blaise. "Most certainly I will, Miss Zabini. You can count on it."

As the door shut behind Blaise, Lucius turned to gaze at the fire. His face was blank, painted orange and gold by the flames but empty of its own light. Only his eyes lived, and they glittered so coldly that the warmth of the fire could not touch them. Behind this frozen mask, his thoughts churned.

Harry Potter. His son and Harry Potter. What game did Dumbledore play with those two boys as his pawns? Lucius could not fool himself into believing that Draco's absence tonight meant Dumbledore had broken his word. Dumbledore never broke his word. It was one of his more predictable and foolish traits, and one day, it would prove his undoing.

No, Dumbledore was not holding Draco against his will. Draco had chosen not to come. But why? And what did Potter have to do with it? He had to find out, and he had to get his son out of that castle before Dumbledore's plans came to fruition. If Dumbledore had his way, Draco Malfoy would betray the Dark Lord, and Lucius' son would be lost to him forever. He could not let that happen, both for Draco's sake and for his own. He _must_ not let it happen.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Malfoy reached for a small bowl of powder that sat on the mantelpiece. He took a small pinch in his long, white fingers and threw it into the fire. The flames turned a lovely, emerald green. 

Leaning close, Malfoy called out, "Master! It is Lucius, Master! I have word for you of Harry Potter!"

**__**

To be continued...


	8. His Master's Voice

****

Author's Note: Hallo, everyone. Here's the next installment. It's got a little something for every taste - angst, intrigue, shouting, explosions, Snape being rude to Harry, Hermione being bossy, Ron being sullen, even a few slashy bits. I hope you like it. Thank you again for all your comments and encouragement!

****

kazoo - in answer to your question about Sirius, et al, you will be finding out what they're up to, but not until news of them reaches Hogwarts. 

Just a general stylistic note about the story: This is not a full-blown epic. It's going to stay tightly focused on the events of the siege, only telling in detail those parts of the story that happen in the castle and on the grounds. I hope this doesn't disappoint you all too much, but I made the choice to keep it contained when I started writing it, and I'm sticking to my guns. I just spent an entire year writing a Lord of the Rings fanfic epic - 200+ pages of it - and I'm not ready to tackle another one so soon. As I said in my introductory note, this story is just for fun. And to keep it fun, I need to keep it reined in, otherwise my Epic Personality will kick in and I'll be wallowing around in it - like a dying walrus - for months. :) 

Enjoy! -- CC

*** *** ***

Chapter 8: _His Master's Voice_

It came as something of a shock to Harry to realize that he had not actually _looked_ at Draco Malfoy in years. He hadn't needed to, because he knew exactly what Malfoy looked like: slim, pale, sharp-featured, sneering, with an arrogant lift to his chin and a snotty curl to his lips that made Harry itch to pound him senseless. Oh, Harry noticed little things right enough, things he filed away in his brain as useful details about his rival - like the fact that Malfoy wore his hair long these days, or the fact that he was now nearly a head shorter than Harry - but those things didn't sink in and alter his mental image of the other boy. He just assumed that, in essentials, Draco had not changed. But the events of the last two days had thrown him into Malfoy's company and forced him to recognized just how wrong he was. Malfoy had changed. They had both changed.

They were sixteen years old now, not the scrubby schoolboys who had met in Madam Malkin's robe shop and conceived such a violent dislike for each other. Both had grown, but while Harry had sprouted like a weed, Draco had grown more slowly and gracefully. Not for Draco Malfoy the awkward knees and elbows of the half-finished stripling. Harry might look as though he'd been strung together from random pieces of firewood, but Draco always looked perfect. And while his extra inches gave Harry an advantage at Quidditch, they did nothing for his confidence when confronted by Draco's effortless poise.

Now, in the privacy of his own head, in the long quiet of this night, Harry could admit to himself the true crux of the problem and the main reason why he avoided looking too closely at the other boy. Draco was beautiful. As much as he had always hated him, or thought he hated him, Harry had not been able to ignore this fact. And Draco's beauty made Harry feel all the more awkward and childish around him, in spite of his superior height. When people spotted Harry in the hallways and pointed or whispered behind their hands, he knew they were discussing his stupid scar or his imagined heroics. Just once, he wished someone would look at him and see a face that was worth remembering for its beauty, not its oddities. A face like Malfoy's.

As he sat in the dark, quiet dungeon, listening to Draco's soft breathing and waiting for him to wake up, Harry thought of all the years he had spent not looking at that beautiful face, for fear he would see something in it that he could not hate. He had wanted so desperately to hate Malfoy - had _needed_ to hate him - but why? Because he was a sneaky little rat with the soul of a Dementor? No. That wasn't Malfoy. That was the image Harry had built of him, nurtured over years, and plastered with the pale, pointed face of the child he had despised on sight.

Well, they had both grown up and learned a few things. Draco didn't wear that face anymore. He wore a face as strong and spare and fine and perfect as the rest of him, and he had learned that parents did not always know best. Harry still wore his own scarred, bespectacled, undistinguished face, but he had learned a thing or two as well. He had learned that people weren't always what they appeared, that a sneer did not always hide a black heart, and that hate was not always the last word. He had learned that he did not have to be afraid of Draco Malfoy. And he had learned that he didn't want to wear Draco's face; he wanted to look at it.

Quietly, so as not to disturb Draco's sleep, Harry conjured a faint ball of wandfire and set it hovering a few feet above the bed. In its bluish light, Draco looked even less human than usual and incredibly fragile, with his face so drawn and the shadows in it so pronounced. Even the way his hands lay against his chest, the fingers curled slightly, heightened the sense of fragility about him and stirred Harry's protective feelings.

Harry's fingers fairly itched to brush the loose hair back from Draco's face and throat, to touch that spot on his temple where the shadows darkened to purple, to trace the long, clean line of his cheekbone showing so sharply beneath his skin, but he did not dare. He did not, in fact, dare to touch the other boy at all without invitation - an invitation he was not likely to get in this lifetime. He would just have to contain himself until the urge passed. And surely it would. It must. He couldn't live like this indefinitely, keyed up and confused, scrambling to understand his own emotions while he untangled them from Draco's, and always fighting that current of longing that ran through him, growing stronger and more insistent all the time. 

He did _not_ want Draco Malfoy. Not the way his itching fingers and unruly thoughts seemed to suggest. He wanted to help and protect him, bring him through the ordeal of breaking his ties to his father, but that was all. He wanted a friend and ally. He wanted a powerful wizard to stand with him against Voldemort. That was _all_ he wanted! The rest of it was just a figment of his overstressed imagination. A symptom of the enforced closeness of the Blood Link. 

Banishing the wandfire so that he couldn't see Draco's face in the darkness, Harry knotted his hands together in his lap and told himself, again, that it was not real. None of it. When Dumbledore severed the link, life would go back to normal, his feelings would be under his control, and Malfoy would mean nothing to him. 

Of its own volition, his hand slid across the blanket until his fingers brushed the flannel of Draco's sleeve. He hesitated for a moment, then moved his hand upward, touching more fabric, then the rough gauze of a bandage, and finally chilled flesh. It was Draco's left hand, the one injured by the charm, and it felt lifeless in Harry's clasp. He curved his fingers around Draco's, wanting to warm them. The sleeping boy stirred and gave a sigh of pain as Harry jarred his wounded arm. 

"Sorry. Your hand is so cold..." he whispered, but he did not let go. Instead, he clasped Draco's hand in both of his own and lifted it away from his body, while sending a calming impulse through the link to make sure the other boy did not awaken. Pulling Draco's hand closer to him, he held it flat between his own palms. 

His hands were larger than Draco's, Harry noted, and rougher. Draco had calluses from holding onto a broomstick for hours at a stretch - Quidditch players always had distinctive hands - and ink stains on his fingers, which rather surprised Harry. He'd always assumed that Malfoy kept his hands as immaculate as the rest of him. Maybe the attack had come while he was doing his homework, and he had not found the time to wash off the ink. Interrupted in the middle of a Potions essay by the summoning charm. Harry shuddered at the thought and turned to look curiously at the pale blur of Draco's face. The current of longing tugged at him again, stronger than before, offering to sweep him off his feet if he would only let go...

"You know something, Malfoy?" he murmured, surprise plain in his voice. "I don't want this to stop. I like it. I _like_ feeling this way, even if it means you're doing it to me again - making me crazy like you always do. But it isn't like always, is it? This is a different kind of crazy. It scares me to death, but I like it. How weird is that?"

Draco did not answer him, but Harry had not expected an answer. He was banking on the fact that Draco was safely unconscious and couldn't hear a word he said.

"Hermione was right, as usual. This Blood Link is dangerous." He bent his head to breathe warm air onto Draco's chill fingers, then he went on, softly, "It's got me thinking like you, which is highly weird and definitely dangerous. Only someone as warped as you would _enjoy_ being scared silly or having your stomach tied up in knots because you can't do the one thing you want to do most in the whole world... It's so sick. It's so... _Malfoy_. I must be getting it from you, because I never felt like this on my own."

__

Of course I didn't, he thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips. _I couldn't feel it for anyone but him._ But he didn't dare say that much aloud, even with Draco asleep. 

Madam Pomfrey bustled in with an armload of fresh candles and a breakfast tray to announce that morning had arrived. Harry had not slept. He wasn't tired, after spending most of the previous day asleep, and his brain was spinning in too many different directions to relax. But he was plenty hungry, and he greeted the nurse with a bright, grateful smile.

She returned his smile with a look of benign satisfaction that surprised him. Madam Pomfrey was a kindly witch and devoted nurse, but she was not one given to satisfaction. Her world was one in which students did stupid things, teachers interfered with her best efforts, and no one listened to her. The last time he'd seen her look truly happy was when she had watched Hagrid eject the entire Slytherin Quidditch team from the hospital wing - one at a time, by the scruff of the neck. A thing of beauty, as Harry recalled, and a great balm to Madam Pomfrey's nerves. She wasn't fond of Slytherins.

Oddly enough, she seemed ready to include Draco - by far her least favorite Slytherin - in her good graces this morning. He woke up to the sound of her clattering about with trays and candles, and when she turned around to confront the boys, she found Harry's bright eyes and Draco's sleep-bleared ones fixed on her. She smiled at them both and said, "Time for some breakfast, you two."

Then, to Harry's utter amazement, she helped Draco sit up, fluffed the pillows behind him, and conjured up a spare one to support his left arm. Draco just blinked at her, either too sleepy or too surprised to say anything. Madam Pomfrey smiled at him again, and Harry could swear that she was about to pat him on the head. 

"Take your time and have a good meal, boys. You're going to need it." She did not give either of them a chance to ask her what she meant, but went on cheerily, "We're moving back upstairs this morning, so I'll be in and out, but you don't have to go for a while yet. The Headmaster will send for you when he's ready."

"Ready for what?" Harry asked.

"Why, to break that..." She grimaced and flicked her fingers at Harry's pocket. "That thing. It can't be done in the middle of a crowded hospital ward, with who knows what kind of spells flying around! Dumbledore is preparing a safe place to work."

When she had taken herself back around the screen, leaving the two boys alone, Draco gave Harry an odd look and said, "Do you suppose that's why she's being nice to me? She figures I'll be dead in an hour, anyway?"

"Don't be morbid," Harry snapped, ducking his head to hide his reaction from the other boy.

Draco stared at his breakfast with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. After a few minutes of near silence, in which the only sound was Harry chewing, he asked, "So... what did Dumbledore say when you told him?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Well, nothing much. I think he was expecting you to stay."

Draco made a sour face and muttered something about crazy old coots. He stabbed at the sausage on his plate with his fork a few times, watching it ooze grease from the puncture wounds, then ventured, "You gave him the charm, though. Right?"

Harry shook his head. "He told me to keep it."

"You still have it? Can I... see it?"

Setting down his own fork, Harry eyed the other boy in some concern. "What's up, Malfoy? Are you having second thoughts?"

"It's too late for that."

"No, it's not." Harry couldn't believe he was saying these things, but they kept coming out of his mouth without his permission. "Dumbledore can still work it out with your father. He promised he'd let you go, if you want to, and I know he'll keep his word."

Draco stared at him, eyes dark and distant, and Harry felt his stomach turn over in a slow, queasy roll. His breakfast suddenly felt like lead pellets inside him. Then Draco said, "I'm not going. I just want to see the charm."

"I don't think..."

He held out his hand, his face closed and unreadable. "It's mine, Potter. I want it."

Harry slowly reached into his pocket and brought out the velvet bag. It felt incredibly heavy, as though Draco's desire to hold it had somehow made it stronger, and even through the protective bag it was uncomfortably hot to the touch. He clutched it for a moment, unwilling to give it up, but Draco's hand did not waver and his eyes compelled Harry to obey.

"It's really heavy," Harry said, as he moved to set the bag in Draco's hand.

"I remember."

The weight of the charm pushed his hand down to the blanket, and Draco slid it from his palm to the bed. The guarded look had left his face to be replaced by curiosity and an aching regret that made Harry's throat tighten in sympathy. He opened the neck of the bag, pushing the soft velvet aside to expose its contents, and both boys leaned forward to look. 

The charm lay there in a nest of midnight blue, glowing softly where the candlelight touched it. It looked so innocent and so lovely, a graceful oval of polished silver and purple crystal, exactly the size and shape of Draco's wrist. There was not a mark on it to show that it had nearly killed a person or to betray that it had been removed by force and with great pain. Harry shuddered at the sight of it.

"It's hard to believe you wore that thing all these years and didn't know it."

"Oh, I knew it. Sort of. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it, and I knew Father had given it to me as a present when I was a baby."

"Did you know what it was?"

"No." 

Draco reached out a finger to touch it, and Harry cried, "Don't!"

"Why not?"

"Dumbledore said not to touch it with your bare skin. That's how it forms a bond."

Draco smiled crookedly at him. "How much more bonded to me can it get?" He scooped up the charm, still inside the bag, and rested his hand on his knee, cradling it. His eyes had that distant look again and had turned a dark, stormy grey. "It feels strange not to wear this. All my life it's been there, a piece of my father that I carried with me, a reminder of how much he loves me. When it's broken..."

"You'll be free of him."

The dark eyes lifted to Harry's face for a moment, then fell again. "Are you free of your parents?"

"No. But I don't want to be."

"Because they were perfect," he murmured, his voice faintly mocking, "just like you? The Perfect Bloody Potters?"

"They weren't, and I'm not. They were just people - good people - who loved me enough to die for me. Why would I want to be free of a family like that?"

"Did it ever occur to you that my parents would die for me?"

Harry answered promptly, without thinking. "No."

Draco smiled, but there was no humor in his face, only sadness. "You're probably right, but it's a nice fantasy. Your father gave you your life. Mine gave me this." He caught the bag by a lower corner and tilted it over his left hand, which lay palm up on his knee. Harry saw what he was doing and made a move to stop him, but he was not fast enough. The charm slid out of the bag and landed in Draco's palm. "But he meant it for the best..."

As the sleek oval of metal struck his palm, Draco's words cut off and his eyes flew open wide. Harry had a split second to register the shock in his face, before his own head exploded with pain. Then he was bent over, clutching at his head, his eyes screwed shut against the hideous noise battering at his skull from the inside.

It was the charm. Harry recognized the terrible burning, the swirling, shrieking agony, and the sense of urgency that threatened to burst his heart. But this time, the call had a voice, and Harry could hear the words it formed in his mind. _Bring him to me! Bring him! Obey me, or I will crush you! Bring me Potter!_

He knew that voice. High and cold, utterly evil. He knew it, because he still heard it in his nightmares, and the touch of it in his mind was like a Dementor's breath upon him - filthy, rotten, full of death and despair. 

Harry gasped and flung himself out of his chair, reaching blindly for Draco's hand. He found it by instinct and gripped his wrist tightly, oblivious to the fresh burns he crushed beneath his fingers. Then he shook it hard, trying to dislodge the charm. Nothing happened. The screams did not fade. The hand he clutched felt as heavy as lead, and he could smell burning flesh.

"Voldemort! It's Voldemort!" he shouted, once again trying to shake the charm loose from Draco's hand.

Draco was screaming something, but his voice was lost in the chaos that raged in Harry's head. Harry wiped a furious hand across his eyes and willed himself to focus. The charm could not take him, because he was not subject to it. And it could not take Draco so long as Harry was linked to him and able to shield him. Harry told himself these things, as he battled his own consuming desire to run out of the room and into Voldemort's arms and fought his way up out of the flood of madness and pain that assaulted him.

Slowly, he became aware of which sounds were coming from inside and which from outside. He could see Draco hunched over on the bed, doubled up in pain, and the charm pulsing grotesquely as it melted into his palm. And he could hear Draco crying furiously, the words tearing at his throat, "No! I won't! _I won't!_" 

Harry abruptly let go of Draco's arm and pulled the other boy against him, wrapping both arms tightly about his shaking body. His eyes fell on Draco's left hand, which lay palm up on the blanket, and the sight of it made him want to be sick. "Why in bloody _hell_ did you do that?!" he gasped, knowing it was a pointless question. 

Draco ignored him. He was completely lost in the torment of the charm, beyond Harry's reach, beyond the reach of everything but Voldemort's deadly voice. Harry clutched at him helplessly, feeling a gibbering panic rise in him to mingle with the other hideous noises in his head. He looked around wildly, hunting for inspiration, but there was nothing. No one. They were alone.

"_Help!_" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "_Somebody help!!_"

He felt Draco stiffen in his arms, then something warm and damp flowed down the front of his shirt. Harry looked down, horrified, to see his pajamas soaked with blood. Draco choked again, and more blood gushed from his mouth to stain Harry's shirt. Harry began to sob. He knew it was useless to cry, but he couldn't help it. He was terrified, in pain, full of the Dark Lord's hissing demands, with Draco bleeding to death down his front, and he was completely helpless to do anything about it.

"_HELP US!_"

There were no answering footsteps, no voices. They were all upstairs in the hospital wing, getting ready to break the charm. Harry's only hope was to get Draco upstairs to Dumbledore before the charm killed him, but he didn't know how. He had his wand in the pocket of his dressing gown, but he had no clue what to do with it and knew that he couldn't focus his power well enough to use it in his current state. He could try to carry Draco, but even in peak physical shape, he wouldn't be able to carry someone nearly as tall and heavy as he was himself. 

The terrible call inside his head was growing stronger, and Draco's attempts to fight it were growing weaker. Harry knew he was out of time. "I don't know what to do!" he howled at Draco's bent head. "Somebody tell me what to do!! _Somebody help us!_"

The door at the end of the room banged open, and running footsteps came down the ward. "Potter?! What's wrong?!"

"Professor Snape!" Harry had never been so happy to hear another voice in his life, and he didn't even care that it was Snape's. "Hurry! It's Voldemort... he's got the charm! He's..."

The screen went flying, and Snape was suddenly looming over them. He took in the scene on the bed in one glance, his face tightening in fury, then he elbowed Harry aside and scooped Draco up in his arms. 

"Close the link!" he growled.

"What?" Harry stared blankly at him, unable to grasp his words. "I can't!"

"Close the link, you bloody fool, before Voldemort takes you along with him! _Close it!_"

Harry obeyed. He didn't know what else to do, and part of him understood that Snape was right. He couldn't let Voldemort find him through the link. So he closed it.

Instantly, the howling stopped. The terrible call was silenced. An aching pressure filled his chest and pounded in his ears, but it was almost a relief after the chaos of the charm. In Snape's arms, Draco gave a single, nerve-shattering cry and went limp. Harry caught a glimpse of his face as Snape turned for the door, and he saw thick, blood-red tears sliding down his pale cheeks.

Harry clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his own cry and started down the ward after Snape. He had to run to keep up with the Potions Master, and the growing pressure in his chest made it difficult to breathe, but he clutched a fold of Snape's robe in one hand and forced his legs to keep moving. Snape ignored his clinging hand. 

Out of the dungeons, across the entrance hall, up the wide marble stairs they went without breaking stride. Harry vaguely heard Snape bellowing for Dumbledore, and he thought he saw Hermione's startled face looking at him as they hurried into the hospital wing. But he could not bring his mind to focus on anything beyond the pain building in his chest and the fear clutching at his heart. He followed Snape into the room and over to a bed, where Dumbledore waited. 

"Put him down," Dumbledore said.

Snape laid Draco on the bed and stepped back to allow Dumbledore room to work. Harry scrambled around to the far side, and he picked up Draco's right hand, clutching it against his bloodied shirt in both of his own.

"You stupid bloody Slytherin," he gasped out, between choking breaths. "I'll never forgive you for this! I'll never..." The strain of holding the link closed was becoming unbearable, and he found he did not have enough breath in his body to keep haranguing Malfoy. Struggling to pull air into his lungs, he closed his eyes and tightened his hold on Draco's hand. 

He could hear Dumbledore murmur something and Snape answer in a hard voice. McGonagall asked, "What can we do?"

Dumbledore answered, very clearly, "Break it. Everyone out of the room except Severus and Minerva. Go on, Poppy, there's nothing you can do here. Are there any students still on the ward?"

"No, Headmaster."

"Good. Harry?" Harry opened his eyes, startled to hear Dumbledore address him. "Keep that link closed, and cover your eyes."

Harry obediently closed his eyes again and ducked his head, wondering what horrible thing was going to happen next. Almost before the thought formed in his head, he heard the tap of a wand against crystal, and the room erupted in light and noise. An enormous blast of power plucked Harry off his feet and hurled him backwards. He crashed into the empty bed behind him and slid down to the floor, his ears ringing. 

"Open the link!" Dumbledore called sharply.

With a sob of relief, Harry snapped the link open, and power rushed out of him in a torrent. He lay sprawled on the floor, his head against the metal frame of the bed, his glasses hopelessly askew, his eyes and ears full of the humming, golden light of his own wizarding power. Around him, tall figures moved in a ceaseless blur of activity, but he didn't care. All that mattered was that the link was open and he could breathe again.

Dumbledore spoke from very close by, his voice gentle but urgent. "I need everything you can give, Harry. Everything."

The words filled him with panic. Draco was dying! The charm was killing him, and Harry didn't have enough power in him to stop it! His heart racing, Harry pushed himself upright and leaned against the bed, bracing his hands on the floor and screwing his face up with the effort to force every scrap of strength he possessed through the link. It had to be enough! It _had_ to be! He had promise, and Harry Potter never broke a promise... he had promised, and he would rather die himself than let Draco go now...

A hand came down on his shoulder and a familiar voice said, "Relax, my boy. That's enough."

Harry took a shuddering breath and let the rush of power subside. He opened his eyes and blinked up at Dumbledore, frowning when he could not bring the old wizard's face into focus. Then he remembered his glasses. He shoved them into place with trembling fingers and asked, in a voice as unsteady as his hand, "Is he dead?"

"No, Harry, he's alive. You did it."

Harry gazed at Dumbledore for a stunned moment, disbelief writ plain in his face, then he did something he had not done since he was a child. He buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.

* * *

Hermione stared at the blank door, unable to grasp what had just happened. One minute, she and Ron were sitting in the hospital wing, waiting for Harry. The next, they were being hustled out of the room by a frantic McGonagall, Snape was running down the corridor with Draco bundled up in his arms and Harry hanging onto his robe, there was blood everywhere and Harry looked like he'd just been hit in the stomach by the Whomping Willow. Then all three of them had disappeared into the room and the door had slammed in her face.

She could hear confused voices on the other side of the door and Dumbledore giving orders. Suddenly, the door flew open, and she had just enough time to leap back before Madam Pomfrey, Professor Flitwick and Professor Moody came through it. Moody shut it behind him and put a locking spell on it that Hermione had no illusions about her own ability to counter. Then he shot her a glare from his normal eye and stumped away, muttering.

The nurse came bustling over to the two Gryffindors and grabbed them each by an arm. "Away from the door, you two. This is no place for students."

"But we were told we could visit Harry," Hermione protested.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head and marched them to the far side of the corridor, muttering darkly under her breath. 

Flitwick, who had his ear pressed to the door, suddenly shrieked in his high-pitched voice, "Get ready!"

He jumped back, just as a loud, splintering crash and a roar came from the other side of the door. The thick oak trembled under the force of the blast. Wisps of smoke and a few sparks flew out around its edges.

Hermione, taken unawares by the explosion, gave a cry of alarm and threw her arms up to cover her head. Ron stared at the door in awe, his eyes going round and his mouth hanging open.

"What was _that?_" he whispered.

"The summoning charm," Flitwick said, looking unusually grim. He was a terminally cheerful person who even seemed to enjoy a good crisis, and Hermione could not ever remember seeing him so worried. "Dumbledore broke it."

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. She had listened in on enough of Dumbledore's conversations over the last few days to know how dangerous that charm was, and what might happen when they broke it. "But that means..." Her eyes flew to the door, and she began to gnaw her lip. "Oh, dear."

"There was no choice," Flitwick assured her. "You-Know-Who got hold of it."

"What?!" Hermione gasped. "Harry! He could have gotten to Harry through the link!" 

"Professor," Madam Pomfrey protested, "don't go frightening these children with such tales."

"Oh, no!" Hermione put out a pleading hand toward Madam Pomfrey. "You must tell us, _please!_ Is Harry all right? You-Know-Who didn't get him, did he?"

"Now, don't you worry, Miss Granger. The Headmaster will look after Potter."

"But Harry's linked to Malfoy, and if Voldemort's got..."

"Don't say that name," Ron wailed, clapping his hands over his ears, "especially now!"

"But Ron..."

"Madam Pomfrey's right. Professor Dumbledore would never let anything bad happen to Harry. And You-Know-Who can _have_ Malfoy, for all I care."

"Oh, Ron!"

"Stop looking at me like that. You don't care what happens to Malfoy any more than I do. You're just afraid to say it in front of a teacher."

"How can you even..."

"Best to go back to your common room," Flitwick suggested, kindly. "There's nothing you can do here."

"But..."

Ron tugged on her arm, trying to draw her down the corridor to the stairs. "Come on, Hermione, let's..."

"_Everybody stop interrupting me!_"

They all froze to stare at her - the adults in some surprise and Ron with the air of one who knows what's coming and isn't looking forward to it. 

"I'm not going anywhere until we find out if Harry's all right," she snapped at Ron, eyes blazing, "and I _do_ care if Voldemort gets Malfoy, because _Harry_ cares if Voldemort gets Malfoy, and _I_ care about _Harry_. So stop telling me what I do and don't think and stop talking to me like I'm a confused toddler and _stop pulling on my arm!_" Ron dropped her arm immediately, looking contrite. "Harry must feel just awful. He looked awful, when he went in there. I think he must be able to hear You-Know-Who through the link, and now, if the charm is broken..."

She wrung her hands together and turned woeful eyes on Ron. "What are we going to do, if something dreadful has happened to Malfoy?"

Ron looked very much as if he wanted to say, 'Throw a party,' but didn't. Instead, he reached out and took Hermione's hand in his. "There's nothing we can do."

"Harry will feel responsible!"

"Well, that's just plain stu..." Ron caught her eye and bit off the rest of his protest. "Oh, okay. Harry was born a hero, and he can't help taking everything too seriously, and yes, he'll feel responsible if the nasty little git croaks on him." 

Hermione shot him a glowing smile, proud of his restraint, however grudgingly applied. Ron blushed and muttered, "Too bad we didn't feed Malfoy to the squid years ago. It would've spared us a lot of grief."

Before Hermione could come up with a suitable response to this, the door opened and Professor McGonagall stuck her head out. "Albus needs you, Poppy. And thank you, Professor Flitwick, but we have everything under control."

Madam Pomfrey slipped into the room, Flitwick headed down the corridor, and McGonagall was about to shut the door again when she spotted Hermione and Ron standing against the far wall. 

"Why are you two hanging around here? Get back to the common room."

"Please, Professor," Hermione said, "is Harry all right?"

McGonagall's severe face softened. "He's had a good scare, but he'll be just fine."

"What about Malfoy?" Ron asked.

McGonagall cocked a cynical eyebrow at him. "Hoping for the worst are we, Weasley?" Ron flushed a shocking red, and McGonagall relented. "Malfoy will also be just fine. Now both of you, run along. Potter won't be up for a visit 'til this afternoon, at the earliest. I'll let you know when you can see him."

"Thank you, Professor." Hermione turned to leave, once more slipping her hand into Ron's for comfort, but she halted abruptly before she'd taken three steps. There, standing in the shadow of a suit of armor and staring intently at them, was Vincent Crabbe. 

"What are you doing here?" Hermione demanded, her voice sharp with suspicion.

Crabbe stepped into the middle of the corridor, looking huge and lumpish with his hands stuck in his pockets and his shoulders hunched defensively. He glanced from Hermione to Ron and shrugged. "Same thing you are."

"I thought you'd left the castle."

He shrugged again, and Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. Holding a conversation with Crabbe was a bit like trying to discuss philosophy with a flobberworm: frustrating and unproductive.

"You heard Professor McGonagall, Crabbe. No one can visit 'til this afternoon. So why don't you go back to your dungeon and... eat something."

"What's going on with Potter and Malfoy?" Crabbe asked, unexpectedly.

"None of your business," Ron snapped.

"Malfoy's my friend, same as Potter is yours. Why is it your business and not mine?"

Hermione opened her mouth to retort but realized, much to her chagrin, that he had a point. Ron did not feel the same compunction and answered, flatly, "Because nobody would trust you with anything that mattered, that's why."

Crabbe shuffled his feet awkwardly, and Hermione got the uneasy feeling that he was genuinely hurt by Ron's words. "I haven't done anything to you, Weasley."

"Not _this_ week, anyway."

"And I haven't done anything to Potter, even though I know there's something funny going on. I don't want to fight."

"Then you're the first Slytherin in history who didn't!"

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione hissed.

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't know, but I don't want to stand here and shout about it. Let's just go, okay? Crabbe, if you want to know about Malfoy, ask Dumbledore, not us. We can't tell you anything."

With that, she strode determinedly away, pulling Ron after her. She did not turn around, so she did not see Crabbe staring after them, his face glum and his eyes full of frustration. He watched until they had rounded a corner, then he slumped back into his shadowed corner and sat down on the floor to wait.

* * *

"Come, Harry." Firm hands reached down to clasp his arms and draw him to his feet. He had stopped crying, but he was still shaking so violently that he did not have command of his limbs. Only Dumbledore's grip on his arms kept him standing. The old wizard guided him away from the bustle of activity in the middle of the room, toward a quiet corner.

"Sit down, my boy. Try to relax." The hands pressed him into a chair. "Something to calm him, I think, Poppy."

"I don't... want to s... sleep..." Harry stammered through chattering teeth.

"It won't put you to sleep, Harry, just calm you a bit. Though I expect you'll be ready enough to sleep very soon."

"No." Harry huddled forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands, fighting to hold his body still. "No, I can't."

A moment later, someone wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and Dumbledore held a steaming cup to his lips. "Drink it, Harry. That's right."

The drink flowed through him like liquid fire, easing the shivers and bringing life back into his numb fingers. He unclenched his muscles a little and took another swallow. It was good to feel warm again, good to feel alive. Harry put one hand to his chest and rubbed it, remembering the terrible pressure of the closed link, but then he felt the huge damp spot on his pajama shirt and jerked his hand away in alarm. He wiped his palm on his leg, leaving a red smear on the flannel of his trousers.

"Have another drink," Dumbledore urged.

Harry complied and felt the knots within him loosen still further. He could breathe comfortably now, without gasping, and his teeth only chattered very slightly on the rim of the cup. Finally, he lifted his head to look into Dumbledore's kind, worried eyes.

"Are you feeling better?"

Harry nodded. "What happened?"

"You went into shock."

"It was Voldemort." He clenched his teeth against a fresh muscle spasm, then whispered, fiercely, "He was in my head! I heard him!"

"Yes, I know." 

"He wanted me. He ordered Draco to bring me to him."

Dumbledore's hand tightened on his shoulder, reassuringly. "There's nothing to be afraid of now. I've destroyed the charm, and there's no way for Voldemort to reach you without it."

Harry shuddered and choked on the rising bile in his throat. "How could Malfoy do that? How could he let Voldemort into the charm, knowing that Draco was wearing it? He could've... killed his own son, just to get to me."

"The Dark Lord wants you very badly, Harry. It would not be in Lucius' power or in his nature to deny Voldemort what he wants."

"He's a sick, twisted, evil bastard, and I hope Voldemort roasts him over a slow fire for not delivering my head on a platter!"

"You are certainly entitled to your opinion, and I can understand why you feel that way. But I suggest you get those sentiments out of your system now, before Draco wakes up." Harry looked up at the old wizard, startled, and Dumbledore smiled. "He won't take kindly to hearing you say such things about his father."

"I guess not." Harry pulled the blanket more firmly about his shoulders and slumped back in the chair. As the convulsive trembling left him, he felt unutterably tired. "If I had the sense of a slug, I'd go in through the link and fix it so he doesn't care about that... that..."

"Then it is a very good thing that we'll be severing the link soon."

"_What?!_"

"You won't be tempted to tamper with Mr. Malfoy's feelings in such an underhanded and - may I say it - unworthy fashion."

Harry swallowed noisily and looked into the kindly blue eyes behind their half-moon spectacles in some trepidation. They were not smiling. "I was joking," he ventured, meekly.

"You know better than that, Mr. Potter."

"I'm sorry. You know I won't do anything like that. But... you didn't mean what you said about the link, did you?"

"Certainly I did. Another day at the most, and Draco will be well enough to finish healing on his own." Harry just stared at him with a stricken look in his eyes. Dumbledore pulled up a chair and sat down facing him, his eyes now intent and frowning. "What's the matter, Harry?"

"I thought you would leave it. The link, I mean."

"That would be a serious mistake."

"It's not a mistake. Draco needs it. You can't just cut the link and leave him alone, after everything that's happened!"

"Mr. Malfoy will be just fine, and it is clearly time that you were both freed from the constraints of the link. You need to be separate people again."

"I don't want to. Not yet!" Something very like panic was rising in Harry, filling him with cold dread at the thought of losing the Blood Link. "Please, Professor, just leave it for a little while. Give Draco time to get used to everything and... feel better about being here with us. You don't know how sick he's been! And how messed up he is about his father!"

"This cannot go on indefinitely, Harry."

"Not indefinitely, just for a while longer, 'til the siege is over and things get back to normal and we can all forget about Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Just 'til then."

"That simply isn't possible. If nothing else, the link would not allow you to function normally outside the hospital wing. Think about it, Harry. You can't get more than thirty feet from Draco without collapsing in pain. How would you two attend classes or reach your separate dormitories to sleep?"

"Make him a Gryffindor!" Harry urged, the panic in his chest pushing him to the edge of tears again.

Dumbledore's face grew stern. "He was sorted into Slytherin House and he will stay a Slytherin."

"But he doesn't belong to the Slytherins anymore!"

"He doesn't belong to you, either."

"But..."

"Love does not grant you ownership, Harry. If you learn nothing else from the mistakes Lucius Malfoy has made, you must learn that."

Harry gazed at Dumbledore through a haze of confused and agonized emotion. He heard the word 'love' and felt his insides turn to water. Then he thought of Draco's father and everything he had done in the guise of loving his son, and he felt sick. Then he looked into Dumbledore's wise, kind, infinitely sad eyes, and he wanted to bury his face in the old wizard's robe and cry like a wounded child.

Instead, he asked, "Did you plan this all along?"

"I told you exactly what I planned, and you have done an admirable job of it."

"No. Did you plan that Draco and I... that I would feel what I feel now? Did you know that it would happen?"

Dumbledore eyed him gravely for a moment, then answered, "Some of us have people in our lives who are tied to us in ways that cannot be rationally explained. Those we love most deeply, those we hate most fiercely, those we fear, those we need. They are not simply lovers, friends and enemies. They are a part of us, of our very souls, and the bonds that hold them to us cannot be broken by anything save death."

Harry shivered in apprehension. "I understand."

"Yes, I know you do."

"Draco is... is tied to me that way."

"I knew it almost from the first moment of seeing you two together. The only question in my mind was what sort of tie it was. The passions that form such bonds are nearly indistinguishable at times."

"I thought I detested him," Harry whispered. 

"How close are love and hate, in the place where they are born? You, perhaps more than anyone else I know, could answer that question, Harry."

"Why did we pretend to hate each other all these years?"

"Was it pretense? I doubt it."

"What was it, then? How could I hate him so much, and now... not hate him?"

"I believe that you and Draco felt the strength of the bond between you from the moment of meeting, but you did not understand it and had no chance to acknowledge it. You sized each other up, decided you didn't like what you saw, and chose the direction of your relationship based on that first moment's fear. The hatred was real enough."

"But... if I had chosen the other way... if I had decided to love him instead of hating him..."

"Then your world would be a very different place, but who's to say it would have been better? We choose a path and we follow it, Harry. Sometimes we are given the chance to pick a side-turning that changes our course. Sometimes we are not. You and Draco have been offered a change of course at a crucial time in your lives. The fact that it is also a crucial time for the entire wizarding world is not a coincidence, but it should not concern you at this particular moment. What matters to you, Harry Potter, is where you will go from here... and who goes with you."

He answered without thinking, "I won't go anywhere without Draco."

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed at him in an unsettling way. "That is something you'll have to work out with Mr. Malfoy. Remember Harry, love is not ownership. You did not free him from his father so you could have him for yourself."

Harry shuddered and turned wounded eyes on Dumbledore. "Is that really what I'm doing? Trying to own him? You make me sound as bad as Malfoy. Or..."

As usual, Dumbledore knew what he was thinking without Harry having to say it. "We've talked about this before - your connection to Tom Riddle and Voldemort. You know that it does not make you _like_ him in any way that matters."

"I've been thinking about it a lot these last few days."

"I know you have."

"There's something about the Blood Link, about being in control this way, that makes me feel like I can do anything. It was so hard not to _make_ Draco choose the way I wanted him to! And even when I didn't make him, I still used the link to manipulate him. He never would have chosen to break the charm and stay here, if I hadn't..." He swallowed noisily and looked away from Dumbledore's piercing gaze. "Sometimes I wonder if I am just like Voldemort, trying to make my own kind of... of Death Eater out of Draco. But it isn't because I want to use him, Professor! I swear it isn't! It's just that I can't stand the thought of him leaving. Ever."

"Harry." Dumbledore waited until Harry turned to look at him again. Then he went on, softly, "Look into your heart and tell me, honestly, did you do anything to Draco through the link that changed who he is or how he thinks? Did you do anything to him that he couldn't choose to reject, later?"

"I turned off the link."

"To make a point, not to force his hand."

"It hurt him." Tears stung Harry's eyes. "It hurt him so much... I hate that I did that to him."

Dumbledore smiled in understanding. "Would Voldemort weep for the pain he caused?" Harry shook his head. "Then stop flogging yourself, Harry, and accept that you are simply a human being. An exceptional one, with a depth of feeling in you that few of us can boast, but just a boy when all is said and done."

"Professor, you won't sever the link yet, will you?"

"Not just yet."

"Thank you. I really don't think I could stand it."

Dumbledore stood up and clasped Harry's shoulder again, warmly. "You can stand far more than you think, but you won't be called upon to do it until you're prepared. Get some rest. And Harry... might I suggest that you change that shirt?"

**__**

To be continued...


	9. Playing with Fire

****

Author's Note: This chapter is mostly talking - the calm before the storm, so to speak. No explosions and only a little bit of shouting, but Harry gets a surprise visit from adolescence (those sneaky little hormones!), and Sirius makes his presence known. This chapter also has the first section written from Draco's POV. He's a difficult person to climb inside of, so I hope it works all right. Let me know what you think! 

Enjoy! -- CC

*** *** ***

****

Chapter 9: _Playing with Fire_

Dumbledore took the scroll from the owl's offered leg and dropped a couple of Knuts into its pouch. As an apology for the time the owl had spent sitting on a ledge outside the owlery, waiting for permission to cross the wards, he added a nice, juicy mouse to the bargain - a little something Crookshanks had left for him. The owl hooted once and hopped onto the back of the chair in which Professor McGonagall sat to enjoy its snack 

McGonagall gave the bird an irritated look but did not shoo it away. "Who is it from?" she asked Dumbledore, nodding at the letter.

"Let's see." 

Dumbledore turned his attention to the letter in his hands. It bore no seal or mark, and was tied with a leather thong set in a blob of green wax. He could feel the protective charms that enclosed it tingle against his fingertips. He broke the wax and untied the thong easily, with no interference from the charms. Then he unrolled the parchment and turned it slightly to catch the light from the fire behind him. It was written in a bold, clean hand that he recognized instantly.

__

Headmaster,

We move at dusk today. Look for our attack with full darkness. I am sorry relief has not come sooner, though knowing you, I have no fears for those inside the castle. It has taken us some time to gather sufficient numbers, with so many afraid to leave their families unprotected.

Our intelligence can find nothing definite on YKW's location, but he is not in Hogsmeade. This gives us reason to fear that the attack on Hogwarts is a diversion meant to draw us out. You will understand why we cannot rush to your relief without some thought to those who are left unguarded by our absence. But all is now in motion. 

You can contact me at the Burrow. Use owls only. Arthur has reports that the floo network is compromised, and we know from past experience how adept the enemy is at tampering with it. This is one of four letters sent from four locations in hopes that one will reach you. Rest assured that all are suitably warded. They may fall into the enemy's hand, but they will tell him nothing.

Give my love to Harry.

Snuffles

Dumbledore rolled the letter into a neat scroll and handed across the desk to McGonagall. She read it quickly, her brows drawn together in a frown of concern. When she looked up at Dumbledore, the frown had spread to her mouth. She looked positively fierce.

"Is it possible that Sirius is right, and this is just a feint on Voldemort's part?" she asked.

"Certainly it's possible, but I think it unlikely."

"He must know that the Order will come to our rescue, and that they will leave families behind them."

"Yes, but we have accounted for all the Death Eaters _and _the Dementors. They are right here, under our eyes, not lurking about the countryside to ambush the families of the Order."

"So long as they're not physically on the grounds, they can apparate..."

"And our forces would see them do it, return to their homes, and pick them off one or two at a time as they came." Dumbledore shook his head. "No, he wants me, and he wants this castle, but as usual, he has been a little too clever for his own good. He thought to use these children as a weapon against me, to force me to overextend my power in protecting them and leave an opening for him to strike, but instead, he has shut me in my stronghold, with my most powerful allies at hand, and all the most vulnerable and valuable wizards of our age - these children - safe inside where he cannot touch them. His attack failed in the first night, when we repulsed the Death Eaters. If he could not get to me then, when he had the element of surprise on his side and I was occupied with the welfare of the students, he will not get to me at all."

"I do hope you're right, Albus."

He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. "If I'm not, you have my permission to say 'I told you so.'"

*** *** ***

Harry took Dumbledore's advice and changed his shirt. He also allowed Madam Pomfrey to clean him up, fuss over him a bit with potions and treats, and settle him in his bed on a mountain of pillows. Her mothering mood of the early morning had not passed, and with no one left in the hospital wing to coddle except Draco - who was dead to the world - and Harry, Harry got all of her attention. But the minute she pulled the privacy screens into place and left him alone, he abandoned the lavish comforts of his own bed and crawled into Draco's instead. 

It occurred to him that this was not the most rational thing he had ever done, considering Draco's inevitable reaction when he woke up, but Harry wasn't in any mood to care. His entire body ached so relentlessly with exhaustion that he couldn't face sleeping in a chair again, and he couldn't relax in his own bed with all that empty space around him, so the only solution was to scrunch up next to Draco in the narrow bed and hope he got a few hours of sleep before the Slytherin dumped him out on his head. Or turned him into a cockroach. 

The beds in the hospital wing were not meant to hold two people, but the cramped quarters didn't bother Harry. The warm body sleeping next to him brought him far more comfort than all of Madam Pomfrey's extra pillows and self-straightening blankets. And for the first time in days, he actually relaxed. He fell asleep with the curve of Draco's back fitted into his side, Draco's bare foot hooked around his leg, and a contented smile on his face.

Somewhere in the warm channels of sleep, Harry rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up, curving his body protectively around the smaller one beside him. He turned his face into the pillow, burrowing into the length of blond hair spilled over it, and his breath fell upon the back of Draco's neck. He slept deeply and happily, with dreams that brought him warmth instead of fear.

In the middle of one such dream, Harry awoke with a start to find himself in an extremely compromising position. He abruptly twisted his body away from Draco's, his cheeks flaming and a groan of pure agony rising in his throat. Draco was lying on his left arm. He could not tug it loose without waking the other boy, which was simply not an option at the moment, so he was stuck. Lying on his back while his arm went slowly numb, his eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling and his body betraying him in the most humiliating way, Harry bit back another groan and silently cursed his miserable, impossible, insane life.

This was not how love was supposed to work. Harry might not know much about love, but he knew that. He had spent his adolescence on a battlefield, fighting for his survival and the survival of his entire world, not making out with girls behind the greenhouse like other kids his age. He had accepted the oddities of his life because he had no choice, but he had assumed that, sooner or later, he'd catch a break. Voldemort would go away, get bored, take a vacation, leave him alone for five bloody minutes while he trimmed his foot-long nails, and Harry would have a chance to find out what normal teenage lust was all about. He was _entitled_ to that much! Right?

Wrong. Not Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. Not Perfect Bloody Potter, as Draco so loved to call him. Harry Potter had to wake up one winter morning, in the middle of an all-out war, to realize that he lusted madly after a boy who would probably disembowel him with a spoon when he found out! And as if that weren't enough, he was so completely, stupidly in love with him that he'd probably stand there like a prat and let him do it! Typical. And the truly ridiculous part of it all was that Harry had done it to himself. He'd done the Dark Lord one better and come up with a way to complicate his own life that would not have occurred to Voldemort in a thousand years of plotting.

Harry shot a sideways glance at the back of Draco's head and, in spite of his best efforts to the contrary, broke out in a foolish smile. One bright spot in this awful mess was that Lucius Malfoy would die of an apoplexy when he found out. Of course, that assumed that Harry would live long enough to drive Malfoy to an early grave, which wasn't looking so good just now. Another bright spot was that, whatever happened now, Harry had three days of perverse happiness to take into the Great Beyond with him. 

With that thought, his hormones took another leap, and the beneficial effects on his body of dwelling on his own death were wiped away in an instant. He groaned softly, tried to twist onto his side, and almost tore his arm out of its socket in the process. His hand was completely numb and his shoulder felt like a pincushion.

"How did you get to be so heavy, all at once?" he whispered to the oblivious Draco. "Come on, Malfoy, give me a break. Roll over or something. _Please._" 

It seemed that Malfoy was as proof against Harry's wiles in sleep as he was awake. He did not so much as twitch. Harry took a few deep breaths, willed his treacherous teenaged body to behave, and planted his free hand in the middle of Draco's back. Pushing steadily with one hand, he began to pull the other arm from under the other boy. He had almost extricated himself and was beginning to think he'd get away with it, when Draco suddenly stirred and sat up.

"What?" he mumbled, thickly.

"Nothing," Harry whispered. "Go back to sleep."

Draco turned to look at him through a curtain of rumpled hair, his eyes open but fogged with sleep. "Potter? Is that you?"

"Yeah. Go to sleep, Malfoy."

"Okay." Draco flopped back on the mattress, his face buried in the pillow, and was unconscious almost before his eyelids closed.

Harry sat up to peer over his shoulder at his face, and broke out in the foolish smile again. He sat there rubbing his arm for a few minutes, trying to get the blood back in his fingers, while availing himself of this chance to watch Draco sleep without the constant pain of the charm to disturb him. But that proved dangerous. His body just wasn't going to let him get away with staring at Malfoy that long. 

Harry quickly called himself to order and lay down with his back to the other boy to get some sleep himself. He couldn't wipe the loopy grin off his face, so he quit trying and closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge that anyone who wandered by and saw him smiling in his sleep would assume he was dreaming about the Quidditch finals.

*** *** ***

Crabbe had the common room almost to himself and, for the first time in his six years at Hogwarts, claim to the best chair by the fire. Under any other circumstances, he would have enjoyed this novel experience, but he had more important things than the common room pecking order on his mind today. Much more important things.

Casting a furtive glance over his shoulder to make sure no one had wandered into the room, he pulled a crumpled letter from his robe and spread it open. This was the fourth or fifth time he'd read it, since Hagrid had given it to him that morning. He knew what it said, but Crabbe didn't trust his memory, and when he wanted to think heavily about something, he needed it in front of him.

It was from Pansy Parkinson, and her writing was as scrunched-up, frilly and annoying as she was herself. He had trouble making out some of the words, especially the ones that were heavily underlined, but he figured that he'd gotten the gist of it by now. It said:

__

Dear, brave (underlined twice)_ Vincent,_

We are coming to get you out! Draco's father has a Plan. He says he won't leave Draco in that castle for another night, where the Old Coot can do horrible things to him, but he needs your help to find him. Be in the Slytherin dungeon this evening after dinner. I don't know who Mr. Malfoy is sending, but someone will meet you there so you can take them to Draco. 

We're counting on you, Vincent! You're our Only Hope of rescuing poor, dear Draco. We simply must get him away from Potter!! I shudder (underlined three times) _to think what they are doing to him!_

Don't tell anyone. Just be ready. And thank you, Vincent! If you can save Draco, I'll be grateful to you forever and even tell your father that you got that B on your test all by yourself! 

Pansy

Crabbe chewed his lip nervously, staring down at the letter without seeing it. He knew what he had to do. He had to tell someone that Mr. Malfoy was going to break into the castle tonight. The question was, who? Should he tell Draco? Or maybe Snape? 

He'd tried to tell Draco twice already, but both times he'd gone to the hospital wing, he'd found Malfoy asleep and Potter still there. Snape would be easy to find - his office was right down the hall - but Crabbe wasn't entirely sure which side Snape was on, and he was afraid to show him something this important. What if Snape decided to help Mr. Malfoy? What if Draco _wanted _him to help Mr. Malfoy? What if Crabbe foiled the rescue attempt and Draco turned him into something nasty as payback? Or worse still, what if he didn't foil it, and the Death Eaters took Draco out of the castle when he really wanted to stay?

It was all too confusing, and Crabbe heartily wished that he'd never told those lies to the Slytherins and gotten himself mixed up in this. If he could only talk to Malfoy! But Potter was always there, watching him, listening to everything he said. And until Crabbe knew _why_ Potter was there...

Crabbe's face hardened in sudden determination, and he pushed himself out of the chair. Maybe he couldn't talk to Malfoy, but there was someone else who had all the answers. She always had all the answers. And this time, he would make her pay attention, because this time, he had the letter to prove he wasn't just another under-handed Slytherin trying to make trouble. Clutching the letter in one hand, he strode out of the dungeon in search of Hermione Granger.

*** *** ***

Draco awoke slowly, drifting up from a comfortable place of darkness and peace. He didn't really want to wake up. He was completely relaxed for the first time in longer than he could remember. Relaxed and happy just to be still. But his brain wouldn't cooperate, and it insisted on dragging him back to consciousness. Back to hunger, thirst, fear, the pain in his head and the burning in his arm.

He opened his eyes to find himself lying in a bed - not his own - with his forehead pressed into someone's softly breathing back. The someone wore hospital wing pajamas - white flannel with little blue stripes - and was very deeply asleep. Draco lay curled up on his right side, his left arm tossed over the someone's ribcage and his face mostly hidden in stripy flannel. 

Potter. The name formed in his fogged and aching head, and Draco wondered idly why it didn't upset him more. Potter. He was lying in bed with Harry Potter, settled comfortably against his back, an arm flung familiarly over him as if his body had known he was there and welcomed him long before his mind figured it out. But now that his mind _had_ figured it out, how was he supposed to react? Shouldn't he be outraged and disgusted that Potter was lying next to him in bed? Yes, he definitely should, but he wasn't. He was... he was scared, only he was so worn out from days of feeling nothing but fear that it came out as a kind of vague unease, churning around in his stomach. 

Very carefully, he pulled his arm back and rolled away from Potter. It hurt to move his left arm, but not the way it had before. This was just a normal kind of pain - vicious, but not unnatural - and one he could handle with no trouble. What were a few burns, when you'd been mind-reamed by the Dark Lord, after all? His head throbbed, as if responding to his thoughts, and he stifled a groan.

He thought briefly of waking Potter, so he could use the Blood Link to dull the shattering pain in his skull, but Draco shied away from that solution. Potter awake and talking and looking at him with those big, sad, puppy-dog eyes was a very bad idea. Very bad. He didn't need Potter. He needed food and water and something else to think about. Unfortunately, every possible place his mind tried to go was fraught with danger, and sooner or later, Potter showed up in all of them.

He shoved back the blankets and slipped out of bed, doing his best not to wake the other boy. The floor was cold under his bare feet, and he shivered slightly. Suddenly, he wanted desperately to climb back under the blankets and hide his face in that soft flannel shirt again. His head did not hurt nearly so much when it was lying against Potter's back, and Potter's body warmed up the bed much more thoroughly than Draco could himself. He always had that problem. He didn't generate enough body heat to compete with winter at Hogwarts, unlike Potter, who gave off heat like an open flame.

Squelching the urge to retreat back into the comfort of the other boy's nearness, Draco padded over to the nearest window. He could feel the link stretch as he did so, tugging at his chest, but he didn't go far enough to make it really hurt. The window was tall and arched, with leaded panes of heavy glass that distorted the view outside, but Draco could see the green of the Hogwarts grounds and the pale winter-blue of the sky through it. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass and shut his eyes, willing the pain and lingering sickness in him away.

Voices reached him, blurred by distance and the closed window, but recognizable. Draco straightened up, frowning, and listened.

"You know better than that," the first voice said. It was Dumbledore, sounding as cool and controlled as always.

"I know you're a coward and an oath-breaker!" the other shouted. 

Draco's stomach contracted in horror. Without realizing what he was doing, he fumbled at the window catch and swung it open. A rush of cold air flowed in, bringing his father's voice with it.

"You swore to release my son! You swore by blood and fire!"

His father, here at Hogwarts, bellowing insults at the Headmaster... His stomach heaved again, and Draco had to clutch at the window sill to keep his feet. He was sweating in spite of the cold, his face twisted with pain and nausea, fighting the urge to scream out his father's name.

"I have kept my word, Lucius," Dumbledore answered, calmly, "and you know it well. Look at your hand to see the judgement of the oath itself."

"It means nothing! You tampered with the spell! I know what you are, Dumbledore, and I wont fall for your tricks! I have come for my son and for satisfaction, and I will not leave until you grant them to me!"

"Draco is not mine to give, nor is he yours to demand. He is a young wizard with the right to choose his own path, which he has done."

Dumbledore's reasonable words acted like a tonic on Draco. He listened to them in wonder, feeling the panic in him die and the sickness fade. He was not subject to his father's demands. Dumbledore would not let Lucius take him out of the castle, and the charm was no longer there to force his obedience. The horrible, wrenching illness in him now was a product of his own mind and not of the poisonous charm. When his father spoke again, Draco listened with something approaching calm.

"My son would never choose you over his own father, unless you forced the decision upon him! I know your methods, Dumbledore! You mouth platitudes about choice and right, while you twist minds to your purposes and rob young wizards of their will and power. But you will not succeed with Draco. He is _my son!_ He will not be used by the likes of you!"

It seemed to Draco that the voices came from nearby, though they were magically amplified and echoed strangely off the castle walls, confusing his sense of direction. Curious and more than a little frightened at the thought of his father on the school grounds, he peered out the window to find the source of the voices. He spotted Dumbledore almost immediately, standing on the top of the nearest tower and looking both very small and very imposing in his purple robes and long white hair. The angle of the hospital wing gave him a clear view of the entire tower and the gleaming figure standing at the parapet. It took him a moment longer to find his father, because he was looking for him on the ground. It wasn't until he let his eyes skim up the length of the tower that he found him - floating in mid-air less than a hundred feet from the window where Draco stood.

With a choke of surprise, Draco stepped hastily back and to one side, putting a chunk of solid wall between himself and his father. Fear that Lucius may have seen him made his heart pound unpleasantly, but he could not help straining to catch the next words, regardless of the danger. This was his future they were discussing. His imprisonment or freedom. His life or death.

"Get off the grounds, Lucius, or I will summon the Masters of Hogwarts to remove you."

"Make all the threats you like, Dumbledore," his father sneered. "Your authority ends at the doors of the castle, and soon it will not reach beyond the broken shell of your own body! Make no mistake. I will have satisfaction, _and_ I will have my son!"

"Then you will have to kill me," Dumbledore answered evenly, no hint of emotion in his voice, "and I will not be the last you have to kill to reach him. He is not a prisoner in this castle, Lucius, but a willing recruit in an army that you created for us. You brought war to Hogwarts. You forced this decision upon Draco and every other child within these walls. If you now find yourself without a son, who but yourself is to blame?"

"Let him tell me of this _decision_ himself! Let me hear it from his lips, and then, perhaps, I will believe you!"

Draco's heart lurched painfully, and he wrapped his arms around his ribcage in an attempt to hold himself together. Part of him was terrified that Dumbledore would agree and that he would have to face his father. Another part wanted so desperately to see Lucius that the ache of it choked him.

"No." With that one word, Draco's throat unclenched and his body went limp with relief. He gasped aloud, as the air rushed back into his lungs. "I don't care what you believe, and I won't expose Draco to your anger for no better reason than to satisfy your stubborn pride."

"You will not let me see him?" Lucius sounded incredulous.

"I will not. You spout a deal of self-righteous noise, Lucius, but one look at the oath rune on your palm will prove the truth of what I say and negate any claim you make, either to Draco's life or to mine. The spell is binding, for all you scoff at it. The charm you laid upon your son is broken. He is no longer subject to your commands."

"_This is your doing!_"

"If that is what you wish to believe, then by all means, believe it. I can understand why you are loath to relinquish your claim on Draco. He is a remarkable boy. He stood against the full onslaught of Voldemort's wrath, denied the Dark Lord his victory, and lived to do it again. Make no mistake, Lucius, he _will_ do it again. He has all of your monumental stubbornness and fierce, if often misguided, loyalty. Now that he has made his choice and given that loyalty to our cause, he will fight Voldemort with all of the passion and brilliance that are his birthright."

"How dare you speak of his birthright, you Muggle-loving traitor?!"

It sounded to Draco as though Dumbledore were laughing. "Do you deny his paternity? It's a little late in the day for that, don't you think? No, Draco is a Malfoy to the bone, and thanks to him, that may well become something to be proud of."

His father uttered a wordless snarl of rage, and he must have reached for his wand to judge by Dumbledore's next words.

"Do not forget where you are, Lucius! If you draw your wand against me, without the judgement of the oath to uphold you, then you place yourself outside its protection." There was a long, burning pause, then Dumbledore went on, sternly, "Leave these grounds while you can. You have no further business with me, or with anyone else in the castle."

"You have not won this battle, Dumbledore."

"That is patently obvious, but neither have I lost it. Until I do, this conversation is over."

Draco froze, straining to hear his father's answer, the slam of a door, a muttered spell, anything that would tell him what was happening. He heard only silence that stretched on forever and scraped his nerves to bloody ruin.

"That's it, then. He knows."

Potter! The breath caught in Draco's throat for a moment, and he almost turned, but he stopped himself just in time. If he turned to face Potter, then he would have to face those eyes, and he couldn't do it. Not now. One look from them, gazing wistfully at him from behind their stupid glasses, and he'd fall completely apart.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I'm really sorry that it had to end this way."

When had Potter started calling him by his given name? And when had he picked up that soft, kind of husky, kind of gentle note in his voice? It was worse than the eyes! If he didn't shut up...

"Do you really think it's over?" Draco heard himself ask. "Will my father just let it go?"

"No, but Dumbledore won't let him get to you. He promised to protect you."

Draco took a ragged breath and muttered, "I don't care about Dumbledore's protection. I didn't stay for him."

There was a long, long pause, during which Draco could feel Potter standing so close behind him that the heat of his body beat solidly against his back and his breath rasped in Draco's ears. Finally, Harry said, "I know."

Potter's hands came down on his shoulders, resting lightly, spreading warmth over his chill skin. He flinched at the touch, but he didn't have the strength to pull away. And somewhere deep, deep inside him, a part of him began to cry. He closed his eyes against the brightness of the day and the terrifying nearness of the other boy. Unfortunately, Draco could feel him all the more acutely in the darkness. 

His voice sounded in his ears again, soft and harsh at the same time, speaking words he couldn't remember giving it permission to say. "When did you figure it out, Potter?"

Potter, for all that he was a Gryffindor and congenitally stupid, did not have to ask him what he meant. Maybe it was the link feeding him secrets. Maybe it was something else. But he knew without asking and answered the real question. "It came to me gradually, over the last few days."

"Kind of slow on the uptake, aren't you?"

"Yeah." The warm hands held his shoulders a bit more tightly, letting him feel their weight. "But I had six years of hating to work through, so I guess two days isn't so bad. Dumbledore says we knew from the start, but we were too young and too scared to understand. So we chose to hate each other."

"I never chose."

Potter's voice cracked a bit when he asked, "What do you mean?"

"I never chose at all. You did. Remember that first day on the train, when I offered to shake your hand?"

"I wouldn't."

"You made the choice for both of us that day."

"You... you can't tell me you didn't hate me all these years, with the way you behaved!"

"Oh, I hated you, right enough. You spat in my face and walked away. I swore I was going to make you regret it."

"Well, you succeeded. I spent half my time at Hogwarts regretting the fact that I had ever met you."

Draco couldn't quite smother the jolt of pain that went through him at Potter's words. He knew he had only himself to blame for the years of rancor and deliberate hurt that they had inflicted on each other. He could have stopped it at any time - except that he couldn't. To spare Potter the constant lash of his jealousy and hatred would have meant losing all connection with him, and that was unthinkable. 

He had known, almost from the start, that he had to bring Potter to him somehow, and if he wouldn't come of his own free will, as a friend, then Draco would have to force him to come as an enemy and rival. It was a compulsion as strong as anything his father's summoning charm could dish out. It was part of him, like his arm or his leg or the beat of his heart, this need to have Harry Potter _see_ him. And now... now he was too frightened of himself even to turn and meet his eyes. 

"I'm sorry," Potter said, in that same rough, gentle voice. "I can't go back and change anything, but I'm sorry that my choice made us enemies for so long."

"Stop apologizing," Draco whispered.

"I can't. I have so much to..."

"_Stop it_. Potter, do you really think I was secretly some kind of angel underneath it all? I wasn't, and I'm not, so get over it. You were right to refuse my friendship. You were right to spit in my face. Just because I didn't... just because..." He couldn't finish that thought, with his throat and his lungs refusing to cooperate. Tears choked him, and something that felt horribly like a sob clutched at his chest, wringing the words out of him. 

Potter's hands tightened on his shoulders again and turned Draco to face him. Draco kept his head down, so he wouldn't have to see those moss-green eyes staring at him, smiling the way they always did, looking warm and alive and dim with sadness all at once. He stared at Potter's bare toes instead and waited.

Potter didn't let go of him. He slid his hand down Draco's arm, until he reached his left hand. Then he lifted the hand, very carefully, and turned it over to look at the thick dressing bound across his palm. The bandages covered a deep, ragged burn in the shape of the summoning charm - so deep that it had damaged the tendons in his hand and partially paralyzed his fingers - and a myriad small cuts made by flying shards of crystal.

"Why did you touch the charm?" Potter suddenly asked.

Draco shrugged, uncomfortably aware that his left hand was still lying in both of Potter's. "I don't know, exactly. It was... talking to me. Calling. I dumped it out of the bag before I knew what I was doing."

"Voldemort." Potter's fingers turned his hand, supporting it, curving against the back of his cold, motionless fingers. "I can heal it."

Draco felt an instantaneous surge of power inside him and the pain of his hand almost vanished. With a wordless grunt of protest, he tried to pull his hand from Potter's clasp. Potter's fingers tightened around it, holding him, and whatever he was doing with the link kept Draco from feeling the pressure of his grip. 

His eyes lifted to Potter's face of their own volition, and he found the other boy gazing intently at him, his green eyes glowing with an internal light that appalled and terrified Draco. He tried again to pull away, and this time, Potter let him go. But the eyes held him, piercing him, shattering him, pinning him to twitch and die like a bug on a card. _Don't look at me like that!_ he wailed silently. _It hurts! It hurts it hurts it hurts..._

"I won't hurt you," Potter murmured, and Draco felt his stomach drop through the floor.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Draco whispered.

"Like what?"

"Like that. Like... like you're enjoying this."

Potter's fine, black brows rose above the rims of his glasses. "But I am." The brows came down, his hands lifted to rest on Draco's shoulders again, and his face softened with some emotion that Draco flatly refused to name. "I won't hurt you," he repeated, softly.

Draco had gone completely nerveless. He couldn't move, he couldn't think, he couldn't speak. He could only stand there, helpless, as Harry Potter stepped closer to him and brought his mouth down to rest against his. In the instant of that touch, he stopped breathing, perhaps his heart even stopped beating. The world went utterly black, and Draco knew that he had gone finally and irretrievably insane.

There was a resounding crash.

"Harry James Potter! I need to talk to you! _Now!_"

The darkness swam into sickening blotches of light and color. Draco's heart started again with a thud, and he staggered slightly as Potter let go of him. 

"Hermione?" Potter said, his voice cracking. "What are you..."

"I said, _now_, Harry!"

Draco backed away from him and the on-rushing Granger, one hand pressed to his mouth and his eyes dazed with shock. Potter threw him a bewildered look, as Granger snatched his arm and began pulling him away. She cast Draco a look of pure venom and snapped, "And we _don't_ need an audience!"

"But the link," Potter tried to protest.

"Do I look like a complete idiot?" 

She dragged Potter a few beds down the ward, then she waved her wand imperiously, and all sound was instantly blanketed. Draco could see them, but he could hear nothing. Still pressing the back of his hand to his mouth in a desperate attempt to hold back his rising nausea, Draco climbed onto his bed and lay down, back to Potter and Granger, and closed his eyes very tightly. 

He was not going to cry. He was not going to throw up. He was not going to think about the fact that Harry Potter had just kissed him, and that it had almost driven him mad and he didn't care... he didn't care...

Harry followed Hermione because he had no choice, but when she plunked him down on a bed and sat herself down facing him, he didn't look at her. His eyes strayed over her shoulder to where Draco now lay curled up in his own bed, shivering slightly and looking so miserable that it wrenched his heart to see it.

"Harry!" Hermione spoke in a warning growl that brought his eyes reluctantly back to her face. "Pay attention!"

"You picked a really bad time to have a chat, Hermione."

"That depends on your point of view, doesn't it? This is important, Harry, and I think we need to discuss it _before_ you get too comfortable with Malfoy."

His gaze moved once again to Draco, and Hermione uttered another furious growl. Hopping off the bed, she marched over to the nearest privacy screen, unfolded it, and dragged it into place to block Harry's view of the other bed. Harry sighed and made a valiant effort to control his sudden, burning desire to throttle Hermione.

Why was it, he wondered, that every time he managed to catch Draco with his guard down, someone interrupted them? Was it a conspiracy? Or was it just that he had the worst luck in the entire wizarding world? He had actually been _kissing_ Malfoy! Right here, not two minutes ago, he had planted one on Draco and _not_ had his teeth kicked in for his trouble! But did he have a chance to find out how Draco felt about it? No! Did he have a chance to do it again? No! If Hermione had given him five more minutes, he would have said everything that needed saying, told Draco that he loved him, made him believe it, and made damn sure that he had something besides his father to think about over the next few hours! He might even have had the chance to find out if Draco felt the same, to find out once and for all if their souls were truly bound by love and not by hate. 

Instead, Hermione had crashed in on them before he'd really gotten started, and now Draco was alone. Harry was facing Hermione on a rampage. Both of them were confused and embarrassed, and God only knew what Draco was thinking! Harry could kill her. He loved her, but he still would gladly kill her. And if she started in on him about Draco, he just might do it.

"I've been doing some research on the Blood Link," she said in her matter-of-fact way. Her anger seemed to have evaporated once Malfoy was out of her direct line of sight.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Of course you have."

"It's no laughing matter. The link is an incredibly powerful thing."

"I know that. I'm the one using it, remember?"

"But do you really understand what it is, Harry? Do you understand just how strongly tied you are to Malfoy right now? The link is formed through shared blood, but it goes beyond blood and body. It's a bond of the spirit, too. A really strong one can even let you feel the other person's emotions." At the look on his face, she added, "I guess this was a strong one."

"Yeah."

Hermione cocked her head to one side, her eyes sharp and knowing. "But you're not upset about that, are you?" Harry shook his head. "I would've thought you'd hate having Malfoy's feelings inside you, but you like it."

"Not... not all of it. I can feel everything, you know, even when it hurts. And I felt Voldemort."

"I was afraid of that. Was it terrible?"

Harry shuddered. "Yes. But honestly, Hermione, the most terrible part was knowing that Draco was stuck in the link between us, dying, while Voldemort tore him to pieces to reach me."

She gave him a big-eyed, mournful look. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"But you're not sorry that Malfoy did."

"I am... in a way. I don't like him, Harry, and I don't trust him. But I would feel sorry for anyone who had to face You-Know-Who."

"Would you be willing to cut Malfoy some slack, if I asked you to? Strictly as a favor to me, and with the understanding that you actually can't stand the selfish, mean, hateful little git?"

"Strictly as a favor to you? Maybe." Harry's face brightened, but Hermione dampened his enthusiasm with a stern look. "But not until you hear me out."

"About what?"

"The link. I know you've started feeling things for Malfoy..."

"Not started. I always felt things for him."

"Okay, started feeling _good_ things for Malfoy, as opposed to the _bad_ things you felt before. Fair enough?"

Harry smiled reluctantly. "Fair enough."

"I know your feelings for him have changed, and believe it or not, I'm not surprised. The more I find out about the Blood Link, the more I expect it. You have to know that the link is causing all of this."

Harry's stomach did a flip, and he surreptitiously wiped his sweating palms on his trouser legs. Hermione's words sounded horribly like the things he had told himself while alone with Malfoy last night, when he was trying to control his feelings. But what if they were true? What if he had just kissed Malfoy because the link had warped his emotions, not because he really wanted to? Then he remembered that all-too-brief moment when he had clasped Draco's shoulders in his hands and touched his mouth to the other boy's, and he knew he had really wanted to do it.

"How far have you let this go, Harry?" Hermione asked, disrupting his thoughts. He gaped at her, his face heating with embarrassment, while she went on, remorselessly, "You think you're in love with him because of the link, but it can't be real. When he's well enough, Dumbledore will break the link, and you'll go back to hating each other. How are you going to feel, then, if you've..."

"Done anything I'll regret?"

"Exactly."

"Whatever I've done, I won't regret it," he said, with such finality that Hermione's eyes widened in shock. Then the words were coming out of him - terrifying, euphoric words that he had meant to hold secret for another time, another person, but that would not stay safely hidden - and he felt the truth of them in the very center of himself. "I love him. He's part of me, and he always was, long before either of us ever heard of a Blood Link."

"Oh, Harry."

"Don't say it like that. It isn't bad!"

"It is, if he doesn't really love you back."

Harry just shrugged.

"Think about what you're doing to yourself!"

"What do you want me to say?"

"That you'll be careful!"

He looked at his friend, at the concern in her face and pleading in her eyes, and smiled crookedly, his own eyes bright with unshed tears. "I tried that once. It doesn't work for me. You're just going to have to trust me, Hermione."

"I do trust you."

"Then don't worry about me."

"Worrying about Harry Potter is my only hobby. I tried collecting stamps once, but I had to give that up when I came to Hogwarts. Wizards don't use stamps." To his surprise, Hermione suddenly leaned over and threw her arms around him. "You know I'll stand by you, no matter what, but I'm frightened for you, Harry."

Harry patted her awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with an armful of Hermione Granger, and bent to speak into her bushy mop of hair. "It's okay. No one's going to hurt me. I have everything under control."

Hermione laughed, sounding slightly hysterical. "You always think that, right before it all goes up in flames. He doesn't love you, Harry. He's a Malfoy, and sooner or later, he's going to remember what that means, then you'd better watch out. He doesn't love you."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't change how I feel. And for now, at least, there's something I can do for him that nobody else can. He needs me, Hermione. He's the first person in my life who ever needed me."

She straightened up to stare accusingly at him. "That's not true!"

"I don't mean as a weapon against Voldemort or as a symbol of something for people to fight for. I mean as a person. As me. Draco needs _me_, Harry James Potter, the boy with the broken glasses and the potion stains on his robe, not The Boy Who Lived."

"Oh, Harry..."

"And I'll tell you something else. I'm going to protect him from his father if I have to kill Lucius Malfoy myself."

"You really don't know how to be careful, do you? Isn't one all-powerful mortal enemy enough for you?"

"Malfoy isn't all-powerful, and he isn't my enemy. He's a miserable excuse for a human being who doesn't deserve to live. But he can go on living forever for all I care, running errands for Voldemort and leading his Death Eater rallies, as long as he stays away from Draco."

"I hope, for all our sakes, that he does."

"He won't," Harry said, grimly. Hermione gave him one of her 'Oh, Harry' looks but offered no comment. In an attempt to distract her from another homily on the dangers of associating with Malfoys, he asked, "Where's Ron? Didn't he want to visit me?"

Hermione flushed and pressed her lips together. "I sent him back to the common room."

"_Back_ to the common room? He was here? When?"

"The first time we stopped by for a visit. You were asleep."

"Oh." Now it was Harry's turn to blush, remembering where he had slept.

"Yes, _oh_. You should be very glad that he isn't here right now. He would have clocked Malfoy the minute he saw him. No," she amended, "he would have clocked you and _murdered_ Malfoy."

"Oh, dear." Fixing a pleading gaze on her, he asked, "Is there any chance that he'll ever speak to me again?"

"He will. The question is what he'll say." At his stricken look, she cried, "Oh, Harry, what do you expect? Ron's only human! You're his best friend and you're... consorting with the enemy!"

"Don't call him that!"

The edge in his voice brought her up short. She turned big, worried, uncomfortably knowing eyes on him and shook her head.

"I'll talk to Ron and try to make him understand," Harry said, desperately, "but there's nothing else I can do! Don't you get it, Hermione? It's too late to go back and pretend none of this happened. It's _too late!_"

"I get it." She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, looking suddenly tired. "I'll talk to Ron. He's not unreasonable, really, and I've been wearing him down over the last couple of days. This morning, I almost got him to admit - _almost_ - that Malfoy was not put on this earth solely to feed the giant squid. That's a major concession on his part."

"But that was before he saw me... uhhh..."

"Yes, well, the sight didn't thrill me, either. But at least he missed the kiss."

Harry flushed painfully and reached out to grab her arm. "Hermione, you won't tell anyone about that, will you?"

"I can absolutely guarantee you that I won't," she said through tight lips.

"You're the best!"

"And _you_ are playing with fire. Very pretty fire, but dangerous all the same!"

Harry gave her an odd, distant look and mused, "You know, I used to think Malfoy was kind of ugly, with that pinched, pale face of his and that sneer..."

Hermione rolled her eyes in disgust. "Boys!" She flicked her wand to banish the muting spell, then walked out of the room, shaking her head and muttering under her breath about boys who were not only dense but blind as well.

Harry did not wait until the door had shut behind her. The moment she walked away, he was up off the bed and around the screen. He found Draco still lying curled up in his bed, pretending to sleep and doing a sorry job of it. 

One quick check of the link told him that the other boy's defenses were once more firmly in place and his emotions back under control. Hermione's interruption had not only broken off their conversation; it had also given Draco time to armor himself against another such encounter. Harry sat down on the edge of the mattress and eyed him thoughtfully. 

After a few minutes of silence, he asked, "Are you okay? You're shivering."

"I'm always cold in this place."

Harry promptly swung his feet up onto the bed and pulled the blanket over himself. He did not dare to move any closer to Draco, so he lay down with his back to the other boy, scrunched onto the very edge of the mattress. There was a slight stirring behind him, and then he felt Draco's head rest lightly against the middle of his back.

Harry could feel the splitting pain in his head coming through the link, and he sent out a deft, soothing tendril of power. Draco sighed as the pain eased.

"Do you want to talk?" Harry asked.

"No." He hesitated, then said, more softly, "Not right now."

"Are you mad at me, Draco?"

The other boy shook his head, very slightly, and Harry felt the movement against his back. The tension flowed out of him with Draco's answer, and he closed his eyes for a moment, a smile of relief softening his lips. That was enough for now. More than enough. 

*** *** ***

Hermione did not rush back to the common room. She had little desire to face Ron and the enormous task of convincing him that loyalty to Harry included letting Draco Malfoy live, unmutilated. In an effort to buy herself some time and put off the inevitable, she found excuses to wander the castle. She spent some time in the library, reading up on Blood Links. She sneaked down to the kitchens and begged a pastry from the House Elves. Then she went up to the owlery and had a chat with Hedwig, telling herself that Harry would appreciate such attention to his friend.

It was getting on toward dinner time when she finally turned her steps toward the common room. The corridors on the east side of the castle were growing dim, and the torches had not yet lighted themselves. Hermione walked in near darkness, but the path was so familiar that she didn't stop to think about it, until she drew near the Fat Lady's portrait, and one of the deep shadows beside it moved.

Hermione froze and whipped out her wand. "_Lumos_."

The ball of light shot from her wand and flew over to where a large, lumpish figure stood just beside the portrait. In its blue light, she instantly recognized the pudding-bowl haircut and dull expression.

"Crabbe! Honestly. Don't you have anything better to do than lurk around in corridors? Go away!"

"I need to talk to you."

"Go _away!_ I have nothing to say to you!"

Crabbe ambled over to her, ignoring her cross dismissal. "Tell me what's going on with Malfoy and Potter. I need to know."

"Then you need to talk to Dumbledore," she snapped.

"Okay. You come with me."

That pulled her up short. "What?"

The huge shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I don't know where his office is, and I've never talked to him. In person, I mean. So you come with me."

She gave an exasperated sigh and tried to push past him. "I have better things to do than to take you for a walk, Crabbe." But he didn't budge, and when she tried to sidestep him, he moved to block her path. "This isn't funny!"

"I'm not trying to make a joke. Listen, Granger, I know you don't like me and I guess I don't like you much, either, but this is important. I need to know what's really going on with Malfoy. I need to know if he really wants to be here, in the castle, or if Dumbledore is making him stay. And I need to know right now."

The sincerity in his voice finally got through to Hermione. She quit shoving at his slab-like shoulder and looked up into his face. His mouth was screwed up in a grimace of worry, and his eyes were staring at her intently, with no sign of his usual sluggish stupidity in them. This was a boy with something serious on his mind.

"Okay. Why do you need to know?"

Crabbe shoved a damp, creased piece of parchment into her hands and said, "Read that."

Hermione read it, and felt the blood drain from her cheeks. "Oh, my! When did you get this?"

"Middle of the morning. I tried to talk to Malfoy about it, but I couldn't. Then I came looking for you. I've been standing here for a couple of hours, I think."

"Why didn't you take it to Dumbledore?" she nearly screeched.

He gave another monumental shrug. "I don't know if that's what Malfoy wants."

"Of course it's what he wants! Crabbe, you idiot, he _chose_ to stay here, and if his father takes him out of here by force..." The blood drained from her face again, as she bit off her panicked words. She did not even want to think about what would happen to Harry, if Malfoy were kidnapped while the link was still in place. It was just too appalling an idea. "We have to show this to Dumbledore immediately."

"I'm not going to see the Headmaster by myself."

"I'll come with you. But I don't..."

Suddenly, the little remaining light in the corridor dimmed, and a sickening cold flowed over Hermione's skin. She gasped, clutching at Crabbe as the nearest solid object, while her knees threatened to fold beneath her. He fastened a hand around her arm, holding in so tightly that her hand went numb.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice high with panic.

"Dementors!" Hermione shuddered and pulled herself away from him. She looked wildly around but could see nothing in the corridor. The only light was her ball of wandfire, now a small, pale globe fighting the unnatural shadow of the Dementors. 

"Come on, Crabbe, _come on!_" She caught his hand and tried to drag him down the hallway. He resisted her for a moment, then broke into a shambling run at her side. "We have to get to Dumbledore!" 

Together, they fled through the clinging darkness that filled the castle.

**__**

To be continued...


	10. The Final Breach

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Author's Note: Hallo, everyone! This chapter makes up for the last one in sheer volume of noise. There's some talking at the beginning, but once the refuse hits the fan, it's all running, shouting, exploding, flying, bleeding, fighting, Unforgivable Curses, animagi, heroic rescues and general chaos. 

Enjoy! -- CC

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Chapter 10:_ The Final Breach_

They reached the second floor and the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's tower without meeting another soul. The clinging darkness did not lessen, nor did the terrifying chill of despair that numbed Hermione's limbs and poisoned her thoughts. But she managed to keep moving, driven by fear of what might happen to Harry if she gave in to the despair. The Dementors must not be too close, or she would not be able to run at all, she reasoned. It was therefore safe to travel the corridors and absolutely necessary to reach Dumbledore.

Hermione dragged Crabbe up to the gargoyle that guarded the entrance, just as the statue came to life and leapt to one side. She stepped back abruptly, treading on Crabbe's toes in the process, and pulled out her wand. When she saw Professor Moody's scarred and dreadful face peering at her from the torchlit opening behind the gargoyle, she let out an audible sigh of relief and let her wand fall to her side. Moody stumped out of the stairwell and planted himself in front of the two students. It was impossible to tell from his face whether or not he was angry, so Hermione didn't try.

"What are you two doing in the corridors?"

"Please, Professor," she cried, "we need to see the Headmaster! It's very important!"

One of the things Hermione liked best about Professor Moody was that he didn't ask awkward questions. He simply fixed a person with that magic eye of his, stared at her like he was stripping her skin off, then made a decision. In this case, Hermione was quite sure that he was reading the letter clutched so tightly in her hand. After a brief moment, he nodded once and turned to wake up the gargoyle again with the proper password.

Hermione shoved Crabbe to get him moving. The Slytherin boy seemed frozen with fear, and it took Hermione a moment to realize why. Crabbe's most vivid memory of Moody was the day he'd turned Malfoy into a bouncing ferret. This event had left a deep impression on him and imbued him with an almost reverential fear of the old Auror. Of course, it had endeared Moody to the rest of the school in a way that nothing else could have, but Hermione was a fair enough person to admit that Crabbe had reason to be leery of him. She refrained from yelling at Crabbe when he hung back from Moody, merely planting her shoulder in his back and throwing her weight against him to get him moving, uttering a muffled "Oof!"

Crabbe obediently edged into the stairwell and flattened himself against one curved wall to make room for Hermione. His face, white with fear of the Dementors and Moody combined, still managed to look awestruck at the sight of the long, cylindrical tower sliding past them, as the stairway carried them smoothly upward. At the top, they halted before a heavy oak door. Hermione knocked politely.

"Come in!"

The door swung open under its own power, and Hermione reached for Crabbe's hand to pull him into the office with her. She found Professor Dumbledore alone, pacing the circular room with a cat-like intensity she had never seen in him before. She squeezed Crabbe's hand a bit more tightly, for reassurance this time, and ventured, "Professor?"

Dumbledore halted his pacing and turned smiling eyes on them. "What can I do for you, Miss Granger?"

She held out the letter to him, wishing she had put it in her robe instead of holding it so tightly in her sweaty hand. It was now a disreputable wad of damp parchment and blurred ink. "I thought you should see this right away."

"Indeed." He crossed the room to take the letter and absently waved both students into chairs by the desk. His face did not change as he read. When he'd finished, he lifted his eyes, still smiling, to fix on Crabbe. "You received this in today's batch of owls?"

"Yes, Headmaster," Crabbe mumbled. Then he summoned his courage to add, "I'm sorry I didn't bring it sooner. I wanted to show it to Malfoy... Draco, I mean, not the other Malfoy... because he might want Mr. Malfoy - the other one - to find... uhmmm..." Swallowing nervously, he flushed and let his confused explanation die off.

"I quite understand. You did your best, I'm sure, and in the absence of Mr. Malfoy - Draco, that is - you did well to enlist Miss Granger's help."

"Do you think the Dementor attack is the rescue Pansy mentioned?" Hermione asked, her curiosity getting the better of her caution.

"That remains to be seen. Professor Moody is leading the staff in a sortie to drive the Dementors back from the walls..."

"They aren't inside?"

"Not that we know of. But they are overloading the wards and causing dangerous power fluctuations." His keen eyes peered at Hermione from over the tops of his spectacles, and he was no longer smiling. "I am sure you see the implications of this, in light of Miss Parkinson's letter."

"I don't," Crabbe mumbled.

"It is possible that the Dementors are deliberately drawing the power of our wards to their location, so that someone might slip through the wards undetected at another spot."

"Malfoy!" Hermione gasped, then added, reflexively, "Lucius, I mean."

Dumbledore twinkled at her for a moment, then glanced down at the letter again, his face somber. "I must speak with Professor Moody, and I think it best if I supervise the removal of the Dementors myself. Then a sweep of the dungeons. I want you two to remain here until I return. The hallways are not safe, and Mr. Crabbe certainly cannot return to his common room." He paused for a moment, then flicked his wand at the desk. A plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of pumpkin juice appeared, along with dishes and cutlery for two. "I'll return as soon as I can."

With that, he whisked himself out the door, and Hermione was left alone in his office with Crabbe. He plunked himself down in front of the sandwiches and began to eat, seemingly without another thought for the two boys in the hospital wing who might, even now, be in mortal danger from Draco's father. Hermione watched him eat for a moment and shuddered. She could not feel the sickening cold of the Dementors in this room, protected as it was by Dumbledore's power, but she still didn't feel right. Her stomach was doing some very unpleasant things.

"Can't you think about anything but food?" she demanded, crossly.

Crabbe gave her a startled look. "I haven't eaten since breakfast. Besides," he waved a half-eaten sandwich at the room around them, "what else are we supposed to do?"

That was second or third time in the last few days that Crabbe had made sense. Hermione found it unsettling. "Try to figure out what's going on, maybe? Or come up with a way to help Harry?"

"Why does Potter need help? Malfoy's not after him. Lucius, I m..."

"I know who you mean!" she snapped. "Never mind, just go ahead and stuff your face."

Crabbe very pointedly put down the sandwich, then he twisted round in his chair to look at her. "Why does Potter need help? Come on, Granger, spill. I showed you the letter. I came with you to see Dumbledore. I proved I'm not trying to hurt your precious Potter or let the Death Eaters into the school. So quit treating me like I've got the Oozing Purple Rot and tell me what's going on."

Hermione thought about that for a full minute, turning over the implications of everything Crabbe had said or done since the beginning of the siege, and could come up with no good excuse for keeping him in the dark beyond her native distrust of Slytherins. But Crabbe was right. He had not behaved like a Slytherin lately, only like a friend. And who was she to begrudge Malfoy his friends, no matter how repellant she found them?

"Okay, I'll tell you." And so she told him everything - or nearly everything. She left out the disturbing shift in Harry's loyalties, and she said nothing about the kiss she had interrupted. But she got the impression that Crabbe knew something of Harry's growing attachment to Malfoy, anyway. Maybe his visits to the hospital wing had, like hers, come at awkward or revealing times. Or maybe he simply wasn't as stupid as he appeared.

When she had finished, he gazed at her with an expression that she was learning to call thoughtful and said, "So Malfoy switched to Potter's side."

"More like Dumbledore's side."

He shook his head. "Potter's."

"It's the same thing, isn't it?"

"Not to Malfoy. He doesn't give a rat's arse for Dumbledore."

Hermione's eyebrows scaled up in surprise. "And you think he does give a... rat's arse for Harry?"

Crabbe got suddenly cagey. "What do you think?"

She felt a sharp flare of resentment toward the sneaky, subtle Slytherins who were currently plaguing the life out of her and snapped, "That he doesn't mean it!"

"Huh?"

"He didn't stay because he wants to do the right thing, or because he means to fight You-Know-Who, or even because he really cares about Harry! It's all a game. Another way to get to the Famous Harry Potter."

Crabbe cocked his head to one side, looking like a very large and clumsy bird. "You think he'd let the Dark Lord stomp his brain bloody as a game?"

"How should I know what idiotic things he'd do?" Hermione retorted.

A simmering anger began to rise in Crabbe. His voice took on an edge that she had never heard in it before. "Right, I forgot. We're Slytherins, so we don't think like _real_ people! There's no way that someone like Malfoy would defy his father, let himself get called a traitor by both sides, and almost _die_ three or four times in a couple of days, just because he decided to do the right thing. Because he wouldn't know the right thing if it ate his face off, would he? No, the only reason for doing something like that would be to hurt Potter, because we all know the whole sodding world revolves around Perfect Bloody Potter!"

"Crabbe..."

"That's why I stayed, too, isn't it? That's why I showed you that letter. Because I'm in on the plot to keep Malfoy close to Potter where he can mess with him, and if his psycho-father takes Malfoy out of here, who'll be left to make Potter's life a living Hell? Me? Nah, I'm too stupid for that job. We need somebody really clever, somebody who's smart enough to get himself _killed_ just to spite the Gryffindors!"

"I'm sorry, Crabbe!" Hermione shouted. He paused, caught off guard, and she repeated more quietly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Really?"

"Really. I know Malfoy didn't stay to hurt Harry. And I know you're trying to help by giving Dumbledore the letter. But tell me something, Crabbe."

"What."

"Why did you really stay?"

"My dad is a Death Eater."

"I know that."

"So I grew up with them. I saw what they are. And I don't want to be that."

Hermione broke out in the first real smile she had given him in six long years. "Good for you, Vincent."

The door swung open, cutting off their conversation, and Dumbledore strode in with a group of teachers at his heels. Hermione bounced out of her seat and would have scuttled away, but Dumbledore waved her back into her chair. The other professors largely ignored her.

"Maintain your sweeps of the dungeons, Alastor," Dumbledore said, as he crossed the room to the desk. "See that all entry points, above and below ground, are guarded and monitor the wards closely for a breach."

"Did any of the Dementors actually penetrate the wards?" McGonagall asked.

Moody answered her. "Not that I've been able to detect. They were all placed at ground level, around the periphery of the castle, and I was able to strengthen the wards by drawing power from other areas..."

"Which left those areas vulnerable," Snape growled.

"I detected no movement through the wards," Moody said.

Dumbledore held up a hand to still the rising hubbub caused by a room full of nervous and angry adults. "I trust your judgement in this, Alastor, but I insist on proper precautions. We know that Malfoy intends to enter the dungeons at some time this evening, and we cannot allow him to reach the upper floors."

Snape flicked a surly glance at Crabbe, who began to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. "Headmaster, I must point out that Malfoy's instructions to Crabbe may be a diversion. An attempt to focus all our attention on the dungeons, while the rest of the castle is virtually ignored."

"He didn't know Crabbe would give Professor Dumbledore the letter!" Hermione protested, drawing all eyes to her and earning her a burning glare from Snape.

"He doesn't need to know," Snape said through his teeth. "It costs him nothing to try. I repeat, the letter may be a diversion, just as the Dementor attack may have been a diversion intended to cause weaknesses in the wards."

"We will not neglect the upper castle, Severus," Dumbledore assured him. "At this point, we have no reason to believe the wards were crossed. All possible approaches to the castle are guarded and the wards are intact. The Dementors have withdrawn from the grounds, and we can expect Sirius to launch his counter attack at any time after full dark."

Hermione glanced at one of the tall windows that ringed the walls. The sky outside was dark, but not with the smothering darkness of the Dementors. Stars were beginning to appear above the stone towers of the castle. She sighed inwardly at the sight, and the knot in her stomach loosened. Sirius was coming. They would not have to survive another night under siege.

"We will patrol the upper levels as well, with special attention to the hospital wing. After I have coordinated all of this, I will join Poppy there to keep an eye on young Mr. Malfoy myself." Turning to Hermione, he said, "Miss Granger, Mr. Crabbe, I think you should go to the Gryffindor common room and stay there until I send for you."

"But... but..." Crabbe stammered.

"You cannot go back to the Slytherin dungeon, and I have no other place to put you, Vincent. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid it has to be the Gryffindors."

Crabbe swallowed audibly and shot a panicked look at Hermione. She shrugged, hoping her face didn't betray her own doubts as to his safety in the Gryffindor common room.

Two minutes later, they were hurrying through the corridors at Professor McGonagall's heels. She escorted them as far as the last bend in the hallway, then she sent them on their way with strict orders to stay inside, no matter what fantastic plan might come into their heads. She had dungeons to patrol and couldn't take time out to round them up again. Hermione led a terrified Crabbe up to the Fat Lady's portrait and halted there, chewing her lip.

"All right, Crabbe, you'd better let me do all the talking when we get inside."

"This is a really bad idea. Why don't I sit out here? I was okay before. Nobody bothered me."

"Just stay behind me and..."

At that moment, the portrait swung open and Ron climbed through the hole. He gave Hermione an exasperated look and groaned, "There you are! Neville was going to send out a search party, and that cat of yours has gone completely bonkers... Here! Come back, you bloody great monster!"

This last was shouted after the fat, ginger body that bounded out of the portrait hole and streaked away. Crookshanks' answer was to turn and hiss at Ron, yellow eyes glowing manically. 

"He's been like that ever since the Dementors..."

"Oh no! The Dementors!" Hermione suddenly clutched at Ron's arm and began pulling him down the corridor after Crookshanks' slinking form. "Hurry up!" Crabbe followed, and together, the three of them raced after the cat.

"What... are we doing?" Ron panted, when Hermione started down the marble staircase at full tilt.

"The Dementors! He was acting just like that in dungeons, when the Dementors first came!" Landing hard on the slick floor at the bottom, her feet skidded out from under her, but Crabbe caught her arm and gave her a shove forward. She caught her balance and took off, following Crookshanks' bottle-brush tail like a banner. "_There's something in the castle!_"

Neither boy said anything more, needing all their breath for running, until they found themselves on the third floor, standing in front of a statue of a hunch-backed witch. Hermione watched the cat scrabble at the statue, snarling and yowling as if in pain, and she felt something like a whimper rise in her throat.

"Oh, God."

"What is it?" Crabbe asked.

"The tunnel from Hogsmeade... something got in through the tunnel. Come on!"

"Where..." Ron did not get his question out, because Hermione was already running down the hallway toward the main staircase, as fast as her legs would carry her. "Where are we going?" he managed to gasp, as he caught her up at the bottom of the stairs.

"The hospital wing! _Hurry!_"

"_What?_"

"Malfoy's here! We have to get there before he does!"

"We'll never make it," Crabbe grumbled, though he did not slow his pace.

"He doesn't know where Draco is. And he'll have to go slowly... sneaking around... Come on! _Run!!_"

They leapt down the last flight of stairs to the first floor and took off down the length of the main corridor in a headlong dash for the door. Crabbe reached it first and threw it open. Hermione slipped in past him, calling at the top of her lungs, "Harry! Harry, are you all right?!"

"Malfoy!" Crabbe bellowed, loudly enough to make Hermione wince.

"What's going on?" Harry demanded, as he stepped around the privacy screen and stared at them in bewilderment.

Crabbe shoved past him without acknowledging his presence, knocking over the screen in his haste. "Malfoy? Are you okay?"

Hermione could see Draco sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking every bit as confused as Harry. 

"Of course I am." He frowned at Crabbe, then gave a shout of protest when the bigger boy grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "Gerroff!"

"Your dad's coming."

"Something got into the castle through the Hogsmeade tunnel," Hermione explained, breathlessly, as she slammed and bolted the door. "I don't know how Mr. Malfoy knew about it but..."

"Wormtail," Harry stated, flatly. He had a cold, angry look on his face that frightened Hermione almost as much as the unknown evil running free in the castle. "Wormtail must have told him."

Turning to face the door squarely, Hermione raised her wand and began forming a locking spell to seal it. Behind her, Ron was chattering at Harry about the Dementor attack, and Crabbe was asking Malfoy where his wand was. Hermione shut out their voices and concentrated on thinking of the strongest spell she knew. It wouldn't be enough to stop Lucius Malfoy, but maybe it would slow him down a little.

The words of the spell had barely left her lips, when she felt the door shudder. Fear tightened in her chest, and she stepped back. Clutching her wand in one sweating hand, she lifted it and threw all her strength into the locking spell, desperately trying to hold it against whatever force challenged her.

__

"Harry! Look out!" she screamed.

Her words were swept away in a tremendous blast of power and heat. The door exploded inward. Every candle and torch on the ward went out, plunging them into total darkness. Hermione was plucked off her feet and hurled to the marble floor, as a vicious, searing pain lanced through her leg. She lay there in a heap with hot blood coursing down her leg, stunned, unable to collect her thoughts, until she heard a sound so dreadful that it brought her up with a start, oblivious to the pain in her body. 

It was Harry, screaming, "_No! No, you can't!_"

Before she could get her hands under her to sit up, Hermione heard the crash of splintering glass, and Harry's screams turned from frantic words to an endless, mindless cry of pain.

"Harry!" she sobbed, but he didn't answer, only screamed and screamed as though his heart were being torn out of his chest.

Thankfully, she still had her wand in her hand. Pushing herself upright, she swept it around the room, calling, "_Incendio!_" 

The candles sprang to life, and in their warm light, she saw Ron sprawled on his back a few feet away, Crabbe dumped face down on the empty bed, and Harry curled up tight on the floor with his wand clutched uselessly in his hand, his face a mask of pain and that unbearable noise coming out of his throat. One of the tall windows had been smashed, showing the night sky beyond. Draco was gone.

All these details registered in Hermione's brain in a split second, and cold certainty came to her almost as quickly. They must stop Malfoy before he reached the outer wards, and there was only one way to do it. Closing her eyes, she pictured the Gryffindor common room and the Firebolt lying on the table by the door, where Harry had left it when the first attack came. 

Once again, she threw all her power into the spell, praying that it would be enough. "_Accio Firebolt!_"

Ron was sitting up, staring at her dazedly. His face was white with panic, his eyes huge and horrified. "Hermione, you're bleeding."

She glanced down at her leg and the enormous sliver of oak driven up into it like a blade. Blood painted her skin and soaked her robe. She knew it was serious, but her brain refused to register anything beyond the danger to Harry. "I know. Ron, get Harry on his broom and go after Malfoy!"

"What?!"

"Harry's broom! I summoned it!"

Ron shot a helpless glance at Harry, who had not moved except to draw his body into a tighter knot of pain, and swallowed convulsively. "He can't fly."

"No, but _you_ can! Oh, Ron, _please!_ Will you _think about it?!_ Malfoy can't apparate while he's on the grounds, and he came on foot! He'll have to carry Draco as far as the outer wards, so you'll have time to catch him! You have to get there in time, or Harry..." She swallowed once, painfully, as tears of desperation began to slide down her cheeks. "Where's the broom? _Where is it?!_"

It was Crabbe who answered her. He lumbered up to where she lay and pointed to the shattered window. There, sailing gracefully toward them, was Harry's Firebolt. It stopped in front of Ron, waiting for him to mount.

"Hurry, Ron!"

He obediently swung a leg over the broom, moving as if in a daze, his face so white that the freckles stood out like burning cinders against it. Then, without Hermione needing to ask, Crabbe lifted Harry and hoisted him onto the broom, settling him in front of Ron and helping the other boy get his arms securely around Harry's body. Stepping back a pace from the laden broom, he gave Ron a wallop on the back and bellowed, "GO!"

The Firebolt shot out of the window and was gone in an instant. Hermione gave one more sob and collapsed back on the floor, the tears now running freely down her cheeks. 

Harry could not move, could not breathe except to scream out his pain and despair. He felt his broomstick between his knees, but he could not make his hands open to catch hold of it. Ron's arms held him in place, and Ron's body curved over him to rest against his huddled back, keeping him from tumbling off the broom in his helplessness. They were flying. Flying so fast that the wind almost whipped Harry's glasses from his face. And somewhere in the tortured recesses of his brain, Harry knew that they were flying to save Draco.

He fought down the sickness and panic in him and hunched a little farther forward, giving Ron room to maneuver the broomstick. Somehow, he managed to get his hands around it without dropping his wand, and he vaguely realized that they must be getting closer to Malfoy. The link wasn't stretched quite so agonizingly, and if he tried very hard, he could pull air into his lungs without sobbing. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Hogwarts grounds blurring past at incredible speed. Ron was flying the Firebolt flat out, faster even than Harry had ever flown it.

"I see them!" Ron cried, his voice whipped away by the shriek of the wind.

Harry struggled to push himself upright, fighting the crippling pain in his chest, and peered down at the darkened grounds. He had barely enough time to spot a figure dressed all in black, hood thrown back to reveal long pale hair, holding an inert body in his arms and running as fast as the extra weight would allow, before Ron threw the Firebolt into a screaming dive. Harry clutched madly at the broomstick and fixed his eyes on the fleeing Lucius Malfoy, lids narrowed against the rush of chill air in his face.

They were getting closer - Harry could feel the pain in his chest easing and the strength coming back into his limbs - but not fast enough. Malfoy was only yards from the wards and the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. If he passed through the wards, he could apparate. And Draco would be lost. 

As Harry watched, helpless, Malfoy reached the wards. He raised his wand to force his way through, but in the moment that he was distracted, Draco came alive in his arms. One carefully timed blow to his father's head, and Draco tumbled to the grass, free. He landed in a crouch, ready to run, but his father was too fast for him. Malfoy's hand shot out and caught his left wrist, even as he fired a green bolt of power at the wards and tore a great hole in them.

"Faster, Ron! _Faster!_" Harry screamed, and Ron obediently leaned into the dive. 

The ground rushed up at them at killing speed, much too fast for Ron to avoid it. He had never flown a Firebolt at full speed and did not know what it was capable of, but panic made him reckless and lucky. At the last instant, he swerved sharply to the left, sending the broomstick plowing into the grass and dumping both the boys off of it in a tangle of arms and legs.

Harry picked himself up and turned to find Malfoy. He was through the wards, still clutching Draco's arm in an iron grip, but Draco had sunk the fingers of his right hand into the soft earth and held on with a strength born of desperation. Malfoy could not pull his entire body through the wards. Even as Harry's eyes found them, Malfoy tried to apparate. The spell hung in a glittering net about him, blurring his outline, but it could not take him so long as he kept hold of Draco and Draco was inside the wards.

Harry shot Ron a frantic look and shouted, "Get him! Don't let Malfoy pull him through!" Then he took off running toward the hole in the wards. 

Ron scrambled to his feet and pounded across the grass at Harry's heels. As they drew closer, Draco looked up, his face a white smudge in the darkness, and screamed, "_Harry!_"

Harry did not have the breath to answer. He ran past Draco without slowing, even as Ron launched himself across the last few feet, skidded on his knees to where Draco half lay, half crouched on the grass, and fastened both hands around the other boy's wrist.

"Hold on!" Ron shouted. "Don't let go!"

Harry plunged through the wards, his wand already in his hands and a curse forming on his lips. Lucius Malfoy turned startled eyes on him, seeming unsure of what he meant to do. But when Harry threw the curse, Malfoy did not hesitate. His wand flicked sideways and swept the power of the curse away as easily as he might an annoying fly. Harry tried again, and again Malfoy barely acknowledged the attack. Harry had never fought a battle like this. He had never taken the offensive and tried to batter his way through a trained wizard's defenses. And he found it so far outside the realm of his experience that he had no idea what to do except hurl every curse, hex or charm he could think of at the impassive Malfoy.

Malfoy tolerated it for a minute or two, then Harry saw him lift his own wand and point it at Harry's chest, and in that instant of mortal threat, Harry went into crisis mode. Time slowed to a crawl, sound faded to nothing but the faint rustle of the wind in the trees, and every movement became clear and deliberate. He saw Malfoy's lips form the word _Crucio_, and he instinctively threw himself to one side to hit the grass, rolling.

The curse burned over his head, singing his hair but leaving him untouched, and Harry had time to get to his feet before Malfoy even realized he had missed. Harry watched the man's empty grey eyes shift from his face to Draco's and his wand move. And in that frozen moment, Harry knew, as surely as he knew that he, Harry, did not have what it took to use an Unforgivable Curse on another human being, that Malfoy meant to turn the Cruciatus Curse on his own son to make him let go.

The wand was coming up, the word forming a second time on Malfoy's lips, when Harry lifted his own wand.

"_Severus,_" he muttered, and a blade of glittering gold light shot from the end of his wand.

Malfoy saw it and smiled. He knew that he could repel this feeble spell as easily as the others. But Harry ignored Lucius Malfoy. Stepping close to where father and son were locked together in a battle to the death, Harry swung the golden blade up and brought it down with all his might on Draco's outstretched forearm.

As the blade bit, time started moving again and the world whirled back in on Harry with shattering force. A dual scream cut the air - half of rage, half of pain. There was a furious crack, and Lucius Malfoy disappeared, snatched away by his own unfinished spell. Draco was flung back through the wards by the pull of Ron's hands and the suddenness of his father's disapparation. He piled into Ron and the two boys fetched up on the grass in a heap of arms, legs, robes and startled faces. Harry staggered, momentarily blinded by the flash, still hearing screams and shouts echoing in his ears. His arm dropped and the blade vanished from the tip of his wand.

For a breathless moment, Harry just stood there panting, waiting for the echoes to die. Then he realized that the sounds he heard were not in his imagination. There really were people shouting and wands going off in the distance, and over it all, the sharp, imperative sound of a dog barking. 

Harry shook himself all over and turned to find his friends. The hole in the wards was closing, but slowly enough that Harry could step through it easily. A few feet inside the wards, Ron and Draco lay in a sprawled heap on the grass, staring at each other with identical looks of blank amazement on their faces. 

Harry sprinted up to them and dropped to his knees, still breathing hard. All three boys looked at each other in silence, at a complete loss for words until Ron's eyes moved to the singed, empty sleeve lying beside Draco on the grass. Then he drew in a ragged breath and said, reverently, "Bloody Hell!"

Before Harry could think of an answer to this, he heard the thud of heavy paws on the grass and turned to see an enormous black dog come bounding out of the shadows toward them. Ron looked too, and a smile of relief spread over his face.

"Snuffles!" he cried.

The dog loped to a halt at Harry's shoulder and, under the stunned eyes of Draco Malfoy, turned into Sirius Black.

"What are you boys doing outside the castle?" Sirius demanded, sternly. "Are you all right?"

Draco just stared at Black for a moment, his eyes gone strangely unfocused, then he gave a small sigh and passed out cold.

**__**

To be continued...


	11. Things Broken, Things Lost

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Author's Note: I'm sorry that this chapter took so long! It was a real monster to write, and I'm still not very happy with it. But there comes a time when you have to let your chapters make their way in the big, wide world, without the comfort of your word processor to protect them... *sigh* So I'm turning this one loose at last, complete with rough spots and possible typos, before I smother it. 

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and comments! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint you! Enjoy. -- CC

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Chapter 11: _Things Broken, Things Lost_

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Wormtail. The name kept coming back to him, over and over again, like a spell he was afraid of forgetting. _Wormtail_. It slithered through his mind on a current of raw pain and guilt, bringing with it images of a graveyard at night and a bubbling cauldron. He tried closing his eyes, but it only made the picture that much sharper, and for a terrifying moment, the sound of Wormtail's screams blended with the voices all around him. His eyes snapped open again and he caught a glimpse of silver-blond hair through a shifting wall of bodies. Pain erupted inside him, pain that had nothing to do with the Blood Link and everything to do with the memory of Wormtail and a slender knife that flashed in the moonlight. Harry bit his tongue to hold back his cry and shrank further onto the bed, hoping no one would think to look in his direction.

They were bustling about - Madam Pomfrey, Professors Snape and McGonagall, and Sirius - murmuring to each other. Harry caught snatches of their words, confused with the cries and curses in his own head, and pierced cleanly every now and then by Dumbledore's strong, calm voice giving instructions. 

"A simple dressing will do, Poppy. There's no bleeding."

"Good lord! Did Lucius Malfoy do _that?_"

"I've never seen anything like it. What spell would make such a wound?"

"It's quite neat."

"A fine lot you are," that was definitely Snape, and he sounded like he wanted to hurt somebody, "talking about him like he's a well-pruned shrub! What I want to know is how this happened!"

"Calm down, Severus," Dumbledore said, soothingly. "We will find out what happened in due time, but first, we must do what we can for Mr. Malfoy."

Madam Pomfrey interjected, "There seems to be little enough wrong with him, Headmaster."

"Little enough?!" Snape growled. "You call this _little enough?!_"

"Severus..."

"When I find out who's responsible for this, I'll..."

"This shouting is doing no one any good, Professor," Madam Pomfrey snapped, cutting off Snape in mid hiss. "All of you clear out and let me do my job!"

"I'm sorry, Poppy, but we can't do that until we have some answers," Dumbledore said.

Harry swallowed nervously and tried to make himself invisible, huddled on the next bed over from Draco's, hidden behind Dumbledore's back. He knew that he couldn't avoid the moment of truth indefinitely, but a panicked voice in his head was gibbering, frantically, _Please, please don't ask me. I can't stand it. I can't tell them what I did. He'll never forgive me... never... Please don't ask!_

Dumbledore went on in that inhumanly calm way of his, "However, you are quite right about the shouting. Severus, I must ask you to control yourself."

Snape stood at the head of Draco's bed, opposite Harry, so he could see the Potions Master's face clearly. Snape was glaring at Dumbledore as though trying to flay him with his eyes, but he clamped his jaw shut and swallowed his rage, showing what was for Snape heroic restraint. Harry saw his eyes stray downward, to where Madam Pomfrey worked with bandages and wand, and his face tighten with pain. Harry knew exactly how he felt.

"Poppy, when you've finished with that dressing, we will see if we can rouse Mr. Malfoy."

"He was awake when I found them," Sirius commented.

"Was he? Then it was not the wound that rendered him unconscious."

"No, it was me. I think I scared him out of his wits... literally."

Dumbledore made a noncommittal noise in his throat and waited for Madam Pomfrey to finish. Harry watched, glad that Dumbledore blocked most of the other bed from view, as the nurse sealed the bandage in place with a touch of her wand and pulled the blanket up to Draco's shoulders. He could see just enough of what she did to know that the dreadful wound was safely hidden - from Draco as well as from him - and he let out a whispered sigh of relief.

Dumbledore nodded at Snape and murmured, "If you would, Severus."

The room suddenly got very quiet, and Harry held his breath. He saw Snape's tall form stooping over Draco's motionless, silver-gilt head, his wand held with peculiar delicacy in one hand. The wand dipped, touching the unconscious boy once, lightly, right between the eyebrows, and there was a tiny spark of purplish light. No one moved for the space of a heartbeat, then Draco's eyes abruptly opened.

He blinked to bring the Potions Master's face into focus and said, fuzzily, "Professor Snape?"

"Your grasp of the obvious is staggering, Malfoy." The words were infinitely sarcastic, but they were spoken with the closest thing to gentleness Snape ever achieved. "How are you feeling?"

"Everything hurts."

"That's not surprising. Do you remember what happened?"

Draco frowned up at him for a moment, then a look of horror swept over his features, and he sat bolt upright in the bed, crying, "Sirius Black! I saw Sirius Black! He was there, Professor, I swear it! He was a dog, but then he..." Draco's gaze jumped wildly from face to face, until it fell on the man standing at the foot of his bed. He let out a choked cry of alarm. "Black!"

Before Snape or Dumbledore could stop him, Draco kicked his legs free of the blankets and tried to scramble further up the bed, away from the spectre of Sirius Black. He reached both hands behind him to brace against the mattress, but then pitched sharply to his left. As his weight landed on his wounded arm, he gave a tearing cry that echoed agonizingly in Harry's chest.

The adults all moved at once. Snape caught Draco before he could topple from the bed, supporting his deadweight against his own body. Madam Pomfrey gave a squawk of protest and tried to grab his arm to protect it, but Draco tore it out of her grasp and pulled it in tightly to his chest. Dumbledore whipped out his wand, while Sirius backed away from the bed, looking as though he wished he had someplace to hide, and McGonagall made a move toward Harry, frowning in concern.

Harry felt Draco's pain lance through him and reacted instinctively, forgetting all about the need to stay invisible. He hopped off his bed and crossed to Draco's in two strides. Then he reached across the mattress to grab Draco's arm, ignoring Snape's fierce eyes on him and the watchful silence of the others. His vision blurred with gold sparks and scintillating light as he poured his power into the link, but he could see well enough to find Draco. The other boy was huddled in a tight ball of pain on the far edge of the bed, leaning against Snape's chest, supported by his arms. He did not cry out, but Harry could hear the breath hissing through his teeth as he fought to control his sobs, and he could feel him shaking.

Harry closed his eyes, all his attention focused on the Blood Link and the power coursing from his body to Draco's. He concentrated on blocking the pain without touching the other boy's emotions, remembering Dumbledore's warnings. Every cell in his body ached to use the link, use his power, to take away the anger and fear and resentment he knew must be brewing inside the Draco, to guarantee that when he asked for his forgiveness he would get it. But he could not. He could not violate the trust that Dumbledore, and more importantly Draco, had placed in him. So he ruthlessly squashed the urge to slide through the link and calm Draco's seething emotions, and threw all his energy into stopping the pain.

It seemed to Harry as though it took him an eternity, but in reality it was no more than a few seconds. The pain ebbed, the tension drained from Draco's body, and he sagged nervelessly against Snape. Harry let his surge of power die and, with a secret sigh of regret, dropped his hand.

Draco lay utterly still for a moment, his eyes closed, while those gathered around the bed watched him in frowning concern. Then Snape broke the stasis by lifting Draco slightly and settling him back on the bed. As his head hit the pillow again, Draco stirred and opened his eyes.

"Potter?" He reached blindly toward Harry, grabbing a fistful of his shirt.

Harry sat down on the edge of the mattress and let Malfoy pull him closer. "Yeah."

"You're doing it again, aren't you? Mucking around in my head and... turning things off."

"Do you want me to stop?"

Malfoy shook his head fractionally. His eyes tracked over to Harry's face, and Harry was shocked to see the fear reflected in them. "I suppose you expect me to thank you," he murmured, in a ghostly imitation of his usual sarcasm.

Harry smiled crookedly and clasped Draco's wrist with one hand. It was the most he dared do, but he had to have some kind of contact with the other boy or his chest would explode from the pressure building in it. "No. I expect you to be rude, obnoxious and ungrateful, like always."

"Good." His eyes fell closed, and he took a deep, ragged breath. "As long as we're square on that."

Harry tightened his grip on the other boy's arm and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Draco, I'm s..."

"Don't!" Malfoy stiffened. "Don't say anything!"

"This is important..."

"_Don't say it!_" he hissed, tearing himself away from Harry's clasp and twisting onto his side.

Harry looked miserably at his back and started to tremble. He felt the link, like a twisted skein of warmth and power, binding him to Draco, beckoning, tempting him with the promise of forgiveness and an end to the pain of uncertainty. If he could only use it... if he only dared...

Suddenly, a familiar voice sounded in his head, laughing. It was high and cruel and hideous, and it cut through Harry like a fine, silver blade. _I'm not you! I'm not!_ Harry shrieked inwardly at his laughing enemy. _It's not the same! I didn't do it for myself! I didn't!_

He must have cried aloud, because Dumbledore was suddenly stooping over him, gripping him by the shoulders and speaking in an urgent voice to the others.

"Everyone, wait for me in my office, please. I need to speak to Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy alone."

Harry shuddered, as he fought to still the imagined voices in his head. Dumbledore's touch helped. It steadied him.

"But Headmaster..." Snape protested.

Dumbledore silenced him with a glance. "Poppy was right. This is not the time. I must insist that you all leave us, and I will join you in a few minutes. Poppy, if you would see to your other patients...?"

As the adults drifted away from the bed with varying degrees of reluctance, Harry lifted haunted eyes to Dumbledore's face and said, with as much courage as he could muster, "It was me, Professor. I'm the one who cut off Draco's hand, not Lucius Malfoy."

"I gathered as much."

"He was trying to apparate, to take Draco away with him, and I..."

"Harry, there really is no need to explain." He lifted a hand to silence Harry's protests and went on, "I want you to listen to me. Both of you."

Draco said nothing and did not turn to face them, but Harry knew that he was listening.

"I'm going to leave you alone for a while, to talk or simply to collect yourselves, whatever you wish. The important thing is that you stay calm. I will instruct Madam Pomfrey to keep an eye on you and take what steps she feels are necessary to keep you from getting agitated.

"Harry," he squeezed the boy's shoulder affectionately, "I have a fair idea of what's going through your mind right now, and I'm sorry for it. It's my fault that you're so overwrought, and believe me, if I'd had an alternative, I would have cut the Blood Link long since. Three days is far too long for anyone to maintain such a close and powerful connection."

"No! Professor, really..."

"Try to be patient, Harry, and relax. Once the link is gone, you'll find that your emotions are much less raw, and you'll be able to sort out everything that's happened. But I need to leave you two linked for just a little while longer, so I need you to try very hard to keep a hold on yourself."

Harry nodded stiffly, refusing to meet Dumbledore's eyes. The old wizard gave his shoulder a final squeeze and turned to leave. "Remember, stay calm, both of you. I'll be back soon."

Draco waited until Dumbledore's footsteps had faded into silence, then he asked, very quietly, "Are we alone?"

Harry glanced around the ward. He saw people lying in a few of the beds - witches and wizards injured in the battle, he supposed - and Madam Pomfrey bending over someone in a bed at the far end of the room. Two other people stood near her, and from the shock of red hair on one of them, Harry gathered that it was Ron. The room was far from empty, but no one was paying any attention to them.

"Pretty much," he answered.

Draco rolled onto his back and looked up at Harry. His face was blank, protected by that smooth indifference he did so well, and his eyes were neutral. He had even managed to tamp down his emotions so that nothing came through the link to Harry. The two boys just stared at each other for a long moment. 

Finally, Draco spoke. "So... I guess I'm not dying anymore."

"I guess not."

"You don't want Dumbledore to cut the link." It wasn't a question, and Harry could think of nothing to say. He shrugged. "You like mucking around in my head, then?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy." The retort came naturally to his lips, but Harry instantly regretted it. His gaze slid away from Draco's, and he bit his lip to hide the fact that it wanted to tremble. "I like having the link because... it's easier to talk to you when I know what you're really thinking."

"You can read my mind?"

"No. It's really more what you're feeling than what you're thinking."

"I always know what you're thinking. I don't need a link for that."

"Yeah, well, some of us aren't so good at pretending we don't give a damn." Harry fidgeted for a moment, staring at his hands, then asked in a rough whisper, "Why won't you let me apologize?"

A flash of confused emotion, quickly smothered, surged through the link. "What's the point?" 

"I need you to believe that I didn't want to do it, that I'm sorry..."

"You're _sorry?!_ For what? For saving both our lives?"

Harry's gaze flew to his face in surprise. "Not for that!"

"Then for what?"

Harry nodded mutely toward Draco's midriff where his left arm lay, carefully hidden by bandages, dressing gown and blankets.

"Why did you do it?" Draco asked, harshly.

"It was the only way I could stop your father from taking you. I couldn't break through his guard, and I couldn't let him hit you with the Cruciatus Curse, so I... made him let go of you."

"That's what I thought."

Harry heard himself pleading with the other boy and wished he could stop it, but he was way past being able to control himself tonight. "I didn't want to, Draco, I swear!"

"You think I don't know that, you incredible git?!"

Harry stared at him, baffled by the hurt and fury in his voice that didn't seem to fit with his words. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything! I didn't want to talk about this at all, remember? But if you're so set on apologizing, then you might as well do it properly!"

"I'm trying..."

"You cut my hand off to save my life, and you say you're sorry. But you're not sorry I'm alive, or I don't think you are, so you must be sorry that it was you who had to do it. You don't like being the hero so much anymore, do you, Potter? It isn't much fun, when you have to chop people up to do it!"

"It was never fun," Harry whispered.

"Well, guess what? It's no fun for the people you rescue, either."

"Draco, I'm _sorry!_"

"_Stop saying that!_"

His furious shout echoed through the high-ceilinged room, and they both fell instantly quiet, straining to hear Madam Pomfrey's approaching footsteps. Either the nurse did not hear them, or she decided that they didn't need to be drugged into docility just yet. No one paid them any mind.

Harry slipped off the bed and went to fetch the privacy screen that stood, folded, against the wall. He opened it and pulled it into place to conceal the length of the ward to their right. Then he sat down on the bed again and fixed a grim, level stare on the other boy.

"Are you mad at me, or not?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

"Gee, maybe I'm a little upset. I got kidnapped by my own father, almost died - again - and had my hand cut off for my own good. It's been kind of a rough night."

Harry opened his mouth to say 'I'm sorry,' but stopped himself in time. "Yeah. For the record, I'm not sorry you're still alive. I'm also not sorry I was the one who had to rescue you. The only thing I'm sorry about is that I had to hurt you to do it. I'd much rather have cut off your father's hand. In fact, I think I'd have enjoyed it."

Draco laughed, but it came out sounding wrong. "Okay. For the record, I don't think it's you I'm mad at. I'm just mad. I want to break something - a lot of things and make a lot of noise doing it - and throw the biggest, nastiest, most vile and painful curse I can think of at my father. I'd definitely enjoy that."

"I'll hold him down for you."

"Don't bother. I can't use my wand properly with my right hand."

"Draco..." Harry broke off, gazing sorrowfully at him, then heaved a sigh and looked away. He could think of absolutely nothing to say, so he pulled both his feet up onto the mattress, tucked them under him, and stared down at his hands, which lay knotted together in his lap.

After a handful of long, quiet minutes, Draco spoke. His voice sounded light and dry, with no hint of anger in it. "I didn't imagine that Black was a dog, did I?"

"No, you didn't. He's an animagus."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me that he isn't a mass murderer."

"That's right."

"Snape says he is."

"Snape hates him. It's a long story."

"Tell it to me, sometime? When we're trapped in a root cellar for days on end and get tired of insulting each other?"

Harry grinned. "Okay."

Another long, long pause followed, then Draco asked, "What's going to happen when they cut the link?"

"I don't know," Harry whispered, his eyes blurring with threatened tears, "and I don't want to find out."

"You think we'll go back to the way it was before. To hating each other."

Without thinking about what he was doing, Harry stretched himself out on the bed next to Draco and closed his eyes. He could feel the other boy's presence in the darkness, like a white flame that gave off no heat, burning just out of reach. He knew he dared not stretch out his hand toward the flame, but he couldn't stop himself from stretching his thoughts out through the link. It might be his last chance, the last time he would ever share himself this completely with Draco. He wouldn't force him to feel anything. He wouldn't violate the trust placed in him. But he would have the last word.

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Don't forget me, he pleaded. _Don't forget what it was like. I won't, ever, I promise. Please Draco, don't forget me._

*** *** ***

"It was _Potter?!_" Snape bellowed, his face a violent shade of purple. He stood in front of Dumbledore's desk, rigid with fury, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets. "Are you telling me that _Harry Potter _did that to Malfoy?!"

"Are you sure, Albus?" McGonagall asked, worriedly.

"He told me himself, and Ron Weasley confirmed it." Dumbledore sighed and threw Snape a sympathetic glance. "It shouldn't come as a surprise. There was no reason for Lucius to cut off his son's hand."

"And what reason did Potter have to do it?" Snape growled.

"To save both their lives. Severus, I understand your feelings, but you must be reasonable. Mr. Potter did his best against a fully-trained Death Eater. That he got out of the encounter alive, with Mr. Malfoy in reasonably good shape, is quiet an achievement."

"I'll show him what I think of his _achievement_."

"No, you will not. You will let those boys deal with this in their own way, and you will say nothing, unless one of them comes to you for help. Do I make myself clear?"

When Snape glared sullenly at him and muttered something that may have been agreement under his breath, Dumbledore turned to the others. 

"Sirius, I need you to find Arthur Weasley and Alastor Moody. Get an update on our progress and tell Moody about Lucius Malfoy's disappearance. We'll need to get the Ministry on his trail as quickly as possible. We can assume that he meant to take Draco back to some stronghold of the Death Eaters or to his home. Some place where he would feel protected."

"What's the likelihood his spell actually worked?" McGonagall asked. "The way Weasley described it, he must have been taken unawares. He wouldn't have time to visualize his destination properly."

"He wasn't splinched," Sirius assured her. "No body parts left behind."

"Yes, but who's to say where he ended up?"

Sirius grinned wolfishly, the expression making his face look even more gaunt and his eyes more sunken than usual. "If we're lucky, will find his pieces spread all over England, and we can put him back together inside Azkaban."

"Whatever the result of his rather unconventional disapparation, we must find him," Dumbledore said. "I would appreciate it if you'd take care of that, Sirius, and quickly. I'll need you in the hospital wing later. Harry will need you."

Sirius nodded once and strode out of the room without further comment.

"Severus, you may return to the hospital wing, but you must give me your word that you will do _nothing_ to make this situation more difficult for Harry."

"Of course not," Snape retorted, at his most acid, "after all, Potter is the injured party, here."

"They are both injured parties, and you know that as well as I do." Snape wouldn't meet Dumbledore's eyes, and he squirmed slightly under their regard. "I need Harry calm and alert, not pushed to the breaking point by threats or accusations. He is in a highly volatile state, drained by the constant use of power, confused by the effects of the Blood Link and changes in himself. Even at his most stable, he would have reacted badly to what he was forced to do tonight. In his current condition, it's likely he won't be able to hold himself together much longer. And I _need him_, Severus! 

"When we have finished this night's work, I will sever the link. Then you and Minerva can both breathe easier. I know that neither of you approved of my decision to form the link, and some at least of your concerns have proved valid. But the fact remains that Harry saved Draco's life - repeatedly - and for that alone, it was worth the risk."

Snape nodded, reluctantly, his eyes still avoiding Dumbledore's. "What will you do about Malfoy's hand?"

"Minerva and I will take care of that, right now. Go back to the hospital wing. You'll feel better for it." Snape nodded again and turned toward the door. "Ah, Severus? Your word?"

"You have it," he growled, as he stalked out of the room.

* * * * 

Professor McGonagall stared down at the object lying on the desk through eyes blurred with exhaustion. It was beautiful, in an eerie and unsettling way, and she felt a measure of pride in it but no relief. No lifting of her spirits. She had no idea how long it had taken them to make it, but she felt as though she'd been fighting the Imperious Curse for a week, and when she looked at the fruits of her labor, she could only think of the boy waiting downstairs and how much she wished that they need never show it to him.

"Well, Albus, what now?"

Dumbledore lifted the graceful, crystalline thing and laid it in a small wooden chest. It shone even more fascinatingly against the crimson velvet lining of the box. "Now, we finish our task. The sooner we do this, the better for Mr. Malfoy's state of mind."

"But the wound is still fresh, and the boy is frightfully weak, for all Poppy's insistence that there's nothing wrong with him."

"Harry will give him what strength he needs."

"But the wound." She pictured the unyielding, inhuman limb they had made pressed to raw, freshly cut and cauterized flesh, and a shudder of pain went through her.

"If we wait for him to heal, he will grow accustomed to the idea that his hand is gone, and it will be much more difficult to make his mind and body accept a replacement."

She sighed and reached over to flip the lid of the chest closed. "I do wish Potter didn't have to be there. This is all monstrously unfair, Albus. That boy has more than enough guilt to carry without adding Malfoy's hand to the pile. Where will it end?" 

"With victory or death, my dear Minerva, as it will for all of us. Harry will manage."

"He shouldn't have to manage." She hesitated for a moment, then added, gruffly, "Neither should Malfoy."

To her amazement, Dumbledore smiled. "Knowing Mr. Malfoy, I suspect he'll grow very fond of his spectacular new hand. It is quite unique, after all, and very striking."

"You're an incurable optimist, Albus."

"No, I simply know my students. Harry would hate every moment of wearing such a thing, and I have no doubt that he'll lash himself into a frenzy of remorse every time he sees Draco with it. But Draco is cut from different cloth." Minerva snorted. "He is not shy, has no desire to blend into his surroundings, and takes it as his due when others set him apart from the common herd. I predict that our young Mr. Malfoy will soon be wearing his adamant hand as a badge of honor."

"Insufferable brat," McGonagall remarked, mildly.

"What? No longer a demon?"

She snorted again and scooped up the box. "Let's get this done, so we can cut that blasted link and give Potter... give _both_ of them a little peace."

*** *** ***

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Not silver. Please not silver. Harry stared hard at the chest in Dumbledore's hands, repeating the phrase like a litany in his mind until it nearly drowned out the old wizard's voice. _Please. Anything but silver._ If Dumbledore opened the box and showed them a silver hand, Harry thought he would snap. Just... snap. Like a worn harp string or a Blood Link that had been stretched too far.

Some of what he was feeling must have bled through the link and reached Draco, because the other boy began to shift uncomfortably and shot him a frowning glance. They were sitting side by side on the edge of the mattress, Harry to Draco's right, but with a careful distance between them. Sirius stood at Harry's shoulder like a tall, lean, protective shadow.

"Mr. Malfoy, do you understand what I'm telling you?" Dumbledore asked.

Draco nodded, his face chalk white and his mouth pressed into a tight, hard line.

"This is going to hurt, but that's why I've left the Blood Link intact. Harry will control the pain and help us form the attachment."

"What is it made out of?" Draco asked in a nearly soundless whisper.

__

Please not silver! Harry chanted to himself, screwing his eyes shut when he saw Dumbledore begin to open the box. He would not think of Wormtail and his shining silver hand... He would not... 

"Adamant," Dumbledore answered. 

Harry's eyes flew open, and he craned his neck to look into the box. He heard Draco give a little choke of surprise. There, lying on a bed of crimson velvet, was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. It was a hand, but a hand like no human being had ever worn. At first glance, it looked like blown glass. Then Harry realized that it wasn't transparent. The outer surface was polished and clear, but inside, it was brilliantly faceted. As Dumbledore shifted the box, the hand caught the candlelight and broke it into a thousand shards of color. 

"It looks like a big diamond," Draco murmured.

"Adamant is a very rare and very magical substance. It responds to wizarding power in a way that diamonds and other non-magic gems do not, aligning its crystalline structure with the power flowing through it to become a conduit for that power. It is also, because of its own magical properties, very resistant to outside magic. Once it is attuned properly, no other source of power can disrupt or control it."

Draco reached out toward the glittering object, then pulled his hand back without touching it. His face was carefully blank, but Harry could feel a sickening brew of shock, horror, curiosity and fear seething inside him.

"You may touch it," Dumbledore said, gently.

Very slowly, he reached into the box again and laid his fingertips against the polished surface of the hand. He grimaced slightly. "It's cold."

"Your body heat will warm it, though it will always be a bit colder than the rest of you." Dumbledore's eyes gleamed at him, reading the distress behind his white mask. "What's troubling you, Draco? Tell me."

Draco swallowed nervously and said, his voice sounding very small in the listening silence, "It doesn't look real. Like you took it off a statue. Is that all it is? Something... something pretty to stick on the end of my arm?"

"At the moment, it is just a piece of sculpture - something pretty, as you say - but that is only because it is not yet a part of you."

"Part of me? It can't ever really be part of me."

"Ah, but that is the true beauty of adamant. Once the hand is attached, it will begin to attune itself to your power. A spell binds it to you at first, but after a time, even that spell is unnecessary. The adamant becomes an extension of you, part of your wizarding power and, in truth, part of your body. It will function as smoothly as any flesh and blood hand."

"I'm left-handed. Will I be able to write with it?"

Dumbledore smiled. "With a little time and practice. And I'll tell you a useful secret, Mr. Malfoy." He leaned closer to Draco, letting his voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. "Ink wipes right off."

Draco stared down at the hand without really seeing it, while all the gathered witches and wizards fell quiet, waiting for him to digest what Dumbledore had told him. Harry waited, too, his hands clenched together in his lap and his own emotions held rigidly in check so that they could not bleed through the link. 

"The decision is yours, Mr. Malfoy." 

Draco started at the sound of Dumbledore's voice, but it was to Harry that he looked. His eyes were strangely dark, as if the pupils had swallowed up the grey and turned them into black wells in his terribly white face. Harry winced at the touch of that gaze, but he did not look away. _Trust Dumbledore,_ he thought urgently, willing the message to reach Draco in some form. _You can trust him._

A flash of understanding lit Draco's eyes, and he turned to nod slightly to Dumbledore.

"Excellent," the old wizard said. "Poppy, remove the dressings please. Minerva, I'll need your help with the binding spell..."

"Do I have to watch?" Draco asked, very quietly.

"No. In fact, it would be better if neither of you did. Harry, keep the link well open and your power ready. I'll tell you what to do when the time comes."

Harry shot Draco an apologetic look and said, "It's easier to direct the power through the link if I'm touching you."

Draco promptly held out his right hand, turning away from Madam Pomfrey and facing Harry directly as he did so. Harry clasped Draco's wrist and felt the other boy's fingers close around his wrist in answer, locking their hands firmly together. Then they took identical deep, calming breaths, blew the air out quickly to banish their nervousness, and looked straight into each other's eyes.

"This is going to really suck, isn't it?" Draco muttered.

"Nope. It'll be a breeze," Harry muttered back.

"Lying Gryffindor scum."

"Chicken-hearted Slytherin git."

"Call me that again and I'll..." He gave a hiss of pain and shut his eyes, in the same moment that Harry flung himself through the link.

It was not nearly as bad as removing the summoning charm, but still it was bad enough. Harry was sweating and lightheaded with the outpouring of power by the time they finished. But he felt instantly better when he opened his eyes and saw Draco. Whatever use Dumbledore had made of Harry's power, it had worked. Draco's face was still distressingly pale, but the lines of pain were fading from it, and his eyes had turned from haunted black to grey again. Harry sent a last whisper of strength and - he could not help himself - affection through the link, then he let go of Draco's hand.

Draco lifted his left hand, holding it up where they could all see it, and turned it slowly to look at every angle. Light slid over its graceful contours and broke against the facets within it, throwing flashes of color across Malfoy's face and hair. Amazingly, the cold, lifeless piece of sculpture had become fluid, almost alive, and Harry fancied that, if he touched it, it would feel warm.

"Can you move it?" Dumbledore asked.

Draco shot him a doubtful glance, but at the old wizard's encouraging nod, he set his jaw and frowned at the hand in concentration. Slowly, awkwardly, the crystalline fingers straightened and spread apart. Draco gave a short, breathless laugh that he swallowed nervously, and Harry grinned.

"It works!" Sirius exclaimed.

Dumbledore threw him an affronted look. "Of course it works. Have you so little faith in me, after all these years?"

Sirius' hand came down on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it warmly, and Harry sensed that he was chuckling to quietly for anyone to hear.

"Now, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore went on, "you may use your hand as much as you like. The more you use it, the more quickly it will become attuned to you. And don't be afraid of damaging it. Adamant is virtually indestructible."

"But that doesn't mean you should test its limits," Snape interjected.

"True. Fingers can be broken off, if you stick them in the wrong sorts of places." 

Draco opened his mouth to ask what qualified as a wrong sort of place, but thought better of it in time. Instead, he simply nodded.

"I want you to get back in bed, lie down, and rest. Madam Pomfrey will give you something to help you relax."

As Madam Pomfrey fussed over Draco, getting him settled in his bed again and pouring potions into him, Dumbledore turned to Harry and said, softly, "Close the link for a moment."

Harry started to protest, but a sharp look from Dumbledore silenced him. He waited until he saw that Draco was lying down comfortably, then he shot Dumbledore a sideways glance and closed his mind tightly around the link.

The effect inside his own body was immediate and familiar. His heart began to labor painfully, his lungs refused to expand, and the pressure in his chest threatened to burst his ribcage. But Harry had expected this and ignored it, turning his attention to Draco instead.

Malfoy felt the flow of power shut off. That much was obvious. He threw Harry a startled look, and his eyebrows drew together in a slight, pained frown. But when Madam Pomfrey spoke to him, he answered her easily, and his hand was perfectly steady when he took the cup of potion from her. 

Dumbledore was watching him as keenly as Harry was. When Draco had swallowed the potion, the Headmaster leaned over to study his face intently, and he asked, "How does your arm feel?" 

Behind the wizard's back, Harry made a frantic gesture and mouthed silently to Draco, _It hurts_.

"It hurts," Draco answered, solemnly.

Dumbledore turned to smile at Harry, catching him with an agonized grimace on his face. His eyes twinkled knowingly at the embarrassed boy. Then he turned back to Draco, eyebrows raised.

Draco flushed and muttered, "Well, it does."

"I don't doubt it. Open the link, Harry."

Harry gratefully snapped open the link and sent a rueful, _Well, we tried_ in Draco's direction with the flow of power. Dumbledore motioned for Harry to take a seat on the mattress and stepped back so that he could see both of them at once. His face was still kind, but the twinkle had left his eyes. They studied the two boys gravely for a moment, shifting from face to face, then he pulled his wand from his robes.

"Please, Professor, don't!" Harry cried.

"It is time, Harry. Time for both of you to heal on your own."

"But Draco needs me," he mumbled, his face heating with embarrassment as he said it. He felt surprise and an odd trickle of warmth come through the link, and his heart contracted in agony at the thought that he might never feel such a thing again. 

"You and Draco both need to become separate people again." Dumbledore said. "I am sorry, Harry, but it is time." He lifted his wand and muttered a spell that Harry could not hear. Then he tapped Draco gently in the center of his chest with the wand. There was a soft popping sound, a brief discharge of scarlet and gold magic, and then nothing.

Nothing. No golden haze of power, no strange laboring of his heart to pump his lifeblood outside himself, no tightness in his lungs, no tantalizing whisper of emotions not his own, no pain. Nothing. Harry pressed his hand flat to his chest and pulled in a sobbing breath, willing himself to feel the tug of the link inside him, but it was gone. 

He closed his eyes to blot out the faces around him. Tears squeezed treacherously from beneath his lashes. His hand rubbed hard against his chest. And still there was nothing. 

"Sirius, take Harry to Madam Pomfrey's sitting room. It's two doors down, on this side of the corridor. No one will disturb you there."

Harry felt a hand close around his arm and urge him to move. He picked up his feet obediently, awkwardly, without caring where he put them, following the pull of that hand. And with every step, he waited for the pain of the stretched link - a pain that never came.

"Come along, Harry." Sirius' voice was low and rough with concern, his grip on Harry's arm gentle.

Some instinct made Harry open his eyes at just that moment. He had not meant to look at that room or at any of those people again, but as Sirius guided him around the end of the bed and toward the door, he suddenly opened his eyes. His head turned of its own volition, and his gaze met Draco's squarely. Their eyes held for a bare moment, then Harry turned away, his shoulders slumping.

He allowed Sirius to steer him out of the hospital ward and down the corridor to Madam Pomfrey's sitting room. This proved to be a comfortable little chamber that reminded him of the Gryffindor Common room, except that it was much neater and the furniture was in better repair. A squashy, inviting divan was pulled up close to the hearth, where a cheerful fire burned. The coffee table was strewn with magazines and books, all with wizarding pictures moving on their covers. 

At Sirius' insistence, Harry collapsed into one corner of the sofa. He stared blankly into the fire, ignoring the coy advances of a witch on the cover of _Magical Maladies Monthly_. Sirius clanked and clattered about behind him, then appeared with a couple of glasses in his hands. He thrust one of them at Harry, saying, "Go on, have a snort."

Harry took the glass but did not taste the brown liquid sloshing around in it.

Sirius perched on the other end of the small sofa, looking worried and extremely nervous. He took a long drink, made a face, and set his glass down on the table with a thunk. "You have your godfather's permission to get sozzled tonight."

"No thanks."

"Harry."

Harry looked up into his deep-set eyes, seeing, as always, the ghosts of Azkaban in them. At the moment, they were also full of genuine concern for Harry.

"Give me a clue, here," Sirius urged. "How can I help?"

"You can't." Harry felt tears prick his eyes again, and a burning humiliation filled him. Not only had he imagined he heard Voldemort in his head, but he had turned hysterical in front of Dumbledore and now was about to cry all over Sirius. This night just kept getting worse and worse.

"There's a lot going on here that I don't understand," Sirius said, "and that's all right. You can explain later. Or not. Maybe none of this is my business. Maybe you don't want to talk to a godfather you hardly know about things that seem really private and really huge to someone your age. But I was sixteen, too, in another lifetime. And I've... been places most other people haven't, just like you. So maybe you _can_ talk to me."

Harry swallowed painfully. "What do you want me to say?"

"Just tell me what hurts so much."

Harry tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. The tears began to slip down his face. "That I can't feel anything!" He stared down into his drink, remembering that last glimpse of Draco's face and his closed, unreadable, winter-grey eyes. "I looked right at him, and I have no idea what he was feeling."

"Harry..."

"Oh God, Sirius, it's gone! I don't want it to be gone!" 

Abandoning his last shreds of control, Harry slumped over to bury his face in Sirius shoulder and let go. It all came out of him in a flood of scalding tears - days of unending pain, fear and euphoria so intense that it shook him to the soul, sorrow for the dead children on the grass, regret for the years of hatred that seemed so hollow to him now, remorse for the terrible thing he had done to save the very person he had now lost, and a terrible grief for himself and for Draco. 

Somewhere in the middle of the storm, he felt Sirius' arm fall around his shoulders. He burrowed his face into his godfather's shoulder, drew closer to his protective warmth, and cried until his body was empty and light. The tears had not washed the loneliness out of him, but they had exhausted him enough that he could sleep without fear of dreams or phantom voices. Without moving from his place on the sofa or moving his face from the wet patch on Sirius' robes, he closed his eyes and slept.

*** *** ***

Draco waited until he was alone, until the last of them had finally left and Pomfrey had gone into her little office at the far end of the ward, then he slipped out of bed and padded down the length of the ward to the window. It was the same window his father had smashed. Someone had repaired it, but it stood open, letting the cold night air flow into the room. After all these days shut up in the castle, the cold felt good on his face. He tucked his hands - or his hand and his... whatever it was - into his sleeves and stepped up to the sill. Then he leaned his head against the icy metal frame of the window and stared out at the stars.

Snape had not wanted to leave. He had stayed long after Dumbledore and the rest had gone, hovering around the bed, obviously reaching for something to say. Draco felt vaguely grateful for his concern, and he wanted to have a long talk with Snape sometime soon - about his decision to betray the Death Eaters and ally himself with Dumbledore - but not tonight. He didn't have the energy for it tonight. He didn't want anyone near him, except maybe...

Draco squelched that thought before it could form properly, but he was too late. Cold blossomed in his chest, and the great, yawning emptiness threatened to swallow him whole. He pressed his forehead against the window frame hard enough to hurt and shut his eyes, fighting the treacherous feelings of loneliness and abandonment that didn't belong inside him, refusing to let the image of Potter's face form in his mind.

Potter's face. He had turned to look at Draco, just as Black hauled him out of the room, and the expression on his face seemed to be burned on Draco's eyes. Every time he let his mind fall still for a moment, it came back to him. He could not find a word to describe it. _Desperate_ was as close as he could get, but that didn't begin to cover all the layers of hurt and pleading and regret Draco had seen there in that one glimpse. 

Draco tightened his arms around his body and breathed deeply of the clean, chill air. He was shivering, but not from the touch of the winter night. The worst of the cold came from inside him, where the link used to be, where warmth and strength and a sense of _presence_ used to flow into him. He'd only had it for a few days, but in that time, he'd grown more than used to it. He'd learned to rely on it. Now there was nothing there, and Draco had never in his life felt so cold or so alone.

What had Dumbledore said about the two of them needing to heal from this on their own? Well, maybe he was right about Potter. Maybe the link was draining him too much. Maybe his behavior over the last day or two was all caused by the link, and he'd go back to normal without it. Maybe... maybe Dumbledore didn't realized just how _cold_ it was in here, without Potter.

He felt something wet against his cheek, sliding between his lashes. It had to be the night's dampness collecting on his face. It couldn't be anything else. How stupid was it to stand here and freeze, when he had a warm bed waiting for him? Only it wasn't warm, and it wasn't really his, and he didn't want to lie in it, shivering, waiting for something that wasn't going to happen. 

Potter's face took shape behind his eyelids again, and with a muttered curse, he pushed himself away from the window. Even with his eyes open, he could see it. Potter's face, turning toward him for a frantic instant, pale and strained, eyes wide behind his crooked glasses, mouth open to protest but no sound coming out of it. Draco shook his head to banish it and started back down the room.

Suddenly, he stopped and turned to look at the figure sleeping in the nearest bed. It was Granger. But what was Granger doing here? He ventured a step or two closer, staring curiously at her. She was deeply asleep - probably drugged with one of Pomfrey's watermelon-guava-mugwort potions - her face unnaturally white and lined with pain. He could see no marks on her, but a blanket covered most of her body, and he certainly wasn't going to muck around in her bed to find out what was wrong with her. Whatever it was, she didn't look too badly off. But Granger's being here meant that Potter had yet another thing to worry about - another source of anxiety or guilt or whatever it was he felt for the Muggle-born girl.

Leaving Granger to sleep undisturbed, Draco made his way to his own bed and crawled under the covers. It was difficult to get the blankets up around his chin with only one hand, but he wasn't ready to put his adamant fingers to the test yet. He'd gotten by without his left hand for three days. He could do it for a while longer, until his brain wrapped itself around the fact that the glittering thing on the end of his arm was now a part of him. He would have to get used to it soon. He couldn't let anyone see him like this, especially not Potter, who would almost certainly throw himself into yet another guilt fit over it.

__

When did I stop wanting to torment Potter? he wondered, as he burrowed down under the covers and closed his eyes. At a guess, he would say that it was when Potter stopped looking at him like he was a particularly vile kind of fungus. It didn't seem important to hurt him anymore. More to the point, it didn't seem _necessary_. Potter had spent three days sitting beside him, talking to him, even helping him, and Draco had not once had to lash out at him to draw his attention. And when he had lashed out, he'd felt vaguely foolish doing it, like he was playing some childish game they'd both outgrown.

No, he didn't want to hurt Potter, even now. He wanted to see him, talk to him, maybe yell at him a bit and call him a few rude things to ease the tightness in his chest, but he didn't want to hurt him. If Potter would only come back, Draco would straighten this mess out. He would make Potter understand that a person could be grateful and angry at the same time, and that once the anger was done with, the gratitude would still be there. 

He had no doubt of that. He didn't know how he really felt about Potter or how Potter would feel about him when he'd recovered from all of this. But he knew that he would always be grateful to the stupid, sentimental, stubborn git for everything he'd done. Even the hand.

Tentatively, Draco closed the fingers of his left hand into a loose fist. They moved - a little stiffly, but they definitely moved - and he tucked the hand protectively into the crook of his right elbow. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, having a hand made of adamant. It made a fashion statement, if nothing else. He couldn't feel the flannel of his pajamas or the heat of his own body against the smooth, hard adamant. All sensation ended abruptly in the middle of his forearm. It was an eerie feeling, but considering how much his hand had tortured him these last few days, it came as something of a relief. At least Potter had cut off the one that was already a bloody mess. That showed a measure of good sense that Draco would not have expected from a Gryffindor.

His cocoon of blankets was gradually warming, and he felt his exhausted muscles begin to relax. The coldness inside him was still there, but the certainty that Potter would be back had eased the pain of it. He knew Potter would come, if only to visit Granger. The Gryffindor was as predictable as he was loyal, and he would not fail to visit one of his closest friends while she languished in the hospital wing. What would happen then, he had no idea, but he didn't strain himself trying to think past that point. Potter would come. And Draco would be here when he did.

**__**

To be continued...


	12. The Morning After

****

Chapter 12: _The Morning After_

Harry plodded up to the Fat Lady's portrait and paused to collect himself. 

"Password?" she chirped, brightly.

He grimaced at her plump, smiling face and mumbled, "In a minute." 

The Fat Lady gave him a huffy look and pretended to become absorbed in the progress of a fly that had blundered onto her canvas.

It was late morning - well past breakfast time - and Harry knew that the common room would be crowded with chattering Gryffindors. If he didn't need a shower and clean clothes so badly, he wouldn't risk going in, but after three days in hospital pajamas and a night spent sleeping on Madam Pomfrey's sofa, he felt in desperate need of repairs. His body was stiff and sore, his face sticky with dried tears, and his hair a disgrace. He wouldn't be caught dead roaming the halls in this condition, and certainly couldn't visit Hermione in the hospital wing. One glimpse of him would send her into fits.

He sighed and ran a hand through his grimy hair. The Fat Lady pursed her lips in disapproval, but whether at his scruffy appearance or his delay in giving the password, he couldn't tell. Finally, he pulled his shoulders up straight, bracing himself for the worst, and said, "Betwattled."

"You certainly look it," she retorted, as she swung open.

The scene inside was even more chaotic than Harry had expected. He barely had time to step through the hole before Neville was on him, calling breathlessly, "Harry! Did you hear? They found Padma and Justin, and they're all right!"

Harry stopped dead as the sea of grinning faces swung in his direction, and he felt the closing portrait smack him on the backside. He saw Parvati seated in the middle of a throng of happy Gryffindors, sobbing into a large handkerchief. Lavender hugged her from one side, while Hermione bent over her on the other. At Neville's cry, everyone turned to stare at him, and Harry found himself suddenly the center of attention.

Hermione straightened up, her face glowing, and limped toward him. "Oh, Harry, isn't it wonderful?"

He stared at her in confusion, his feelings a mix of relief and disappointment at finding her here. "Why aren't you in the hospital wing? Sirius told me you were hurt."

"I'm just a little sore. Nothing serious. But Harry, you saved Justin and Padma!"

"No... no, I didn't."

The rest of the Gryffindors were converging on him now, with Parvati at the front of the mob. She flung her arms around him and, much to the delight of his classmates, kissed him full on the lips. 

"You did," she gushed, her eyes shining through her tears. "Professor McGonagall told us all about it. If you hadn't sent Snape out to look for them, who knows what would have happened?"

"I sent Snape? What are you talking about?"

"They were just where you told him they would be, in Hagrid's hut! They spent the last three days hiding under the bed, eating turnips, and waiting for Hagrid to come home."

"That's not the only thing they were doing," Seamus cracked, rolling his eyes.

Dean snickered, Ron grinned fit to split his face, and the girls made disgusted noises. Harry just stared at them in numb disbelief, trying to shake off his paralysis and move. He was happy to hear that Padma and Justin were okay, but he was in no mood to deal with all of Gryffindor House celebrating his heroics - again - for something he hadn't really done - again. All he wanted was some privacy. Even his desire for a shower had deserted him, now that Hermione was back and he had no reason to leave the dormitory.

Mumbling something about a clean shirt, he broke away and made for the stairs. Hermione came up behind him before he had climbed two steps. She stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Where have you been, Harry?"

"With Sirius."

Her face relaxed into a smile. "I'm so glad! I was worried, when I didn't see you this morning. I guess," the smile died and worry crept into her eyes, "Professor Dumbledore cut the link."

He nodded once and turned again to leave, but she held onto his arm and wouldn't let him go.

"Are you all right?" she asked, softly.

He shot her a sideways glance and muttered, "Honestly? I don't know."

"It's for the best, Harry..." His furious glare made her swallow her words and brought a defiant sparkle to her eyes. "I'm sorry if it hurts you, but that's what I think," she said, stubbornly.

"You're entitled to your opinion." 

Shrugging off Hermione's grip, he turned his back on her and swiftly climbed the stairs to reach the relative peace of his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, clambered onto his bed, and pulled the curtains. There he lay in the quiet dimness, holding very still, willing himself not to cry. He did not dare to think or to feel, so bruised and exhausted was he in body and spirit. He did not dare to let a chink of light into his mind, knowing that it would fall on that torn and bloody spot where the link used to be, or upon the aching gash in his heart where Draco's emotions had lived. 

Dumbledore was right. The Blood Link was dangerous. Hermione, Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, all of them. They were right, and Harry was a fool. But knowing that didn't help him cope with the emptiness and pain inside him. He could go on telling himself that he was a fool until he went mad, and he would still miss the intimacy and warmth of the link, he would still miss Draco's feelings crowding into him, and he would still look for the other boy beside him every time he opened his eyes or turned his head.

Unable to stop himself, Harry did just that. He opened his eyes, and he turned his head, searching for Draco's sleeping form in the shadows beside him. All he saw was the heavy brocade of his bed curtains and the rumpled blankets that covered his mattress. Empty. 

Closing his eyes again, Harry summoned a picture of Draco as he had seen him countless times over the past three days - curled up on his side, lying still, eyes closed, face shadowed with illness and pain, hair tumbled loose around his throat and cheek. And finally, to make himself remember all of it, he added the gleaming, adamant hand pulled in close to Draco's chest, fingers curled slightly, clutched protectively in the flesh-and-blood fingers of his right hand. 

It was a beautiful image. It lingered tantalizingly behind his eyelids, making Harry ache and bleed and burn for the closeness of the link and the touch of the other boy's presence within him. The pain was as vivid as the picture in his head, and Harry treasured them both as a sign that he could still feel something for the wounded archangel of his imaginings.

__

I don't know if I love you, he thought to his perfect, unknowing vision, _but I do miss you._

*** *** ***

Potter didn't come. It took Draco most of the morning to accept the truth of this and stop looking up every time he heard the slap of feet against the floor. But when everyone from Dumbledore to Vincent Crabbe had stopped in to see him, fussed a little, told him scraps of news, and gazed at him with a truly nauseating combination of concern, admiration and pity, he got the message. Potter wasn't _going_ to come, at least not today, and his endless parade of visitors knew it.

His mood turned sour and his appetite, which had revived for the first time in days, abruptly deserted him. Draco told himself that he was simply tired after days of illness and various kinds of trauma, but he didn't believe his own excuses. He cast occasional bitter glances down the ward to the bed where Granger had slept the night before - now empty and made up with clean, crisp sheets for the next student who burned himself in Potions class or fell off his broom at Quidditch - mentally cursing her for leaving so quickly. In his blacker moments, when the coldness inside him grew so intense that it hurt, he was sure that she'd done it deliberately to keep Potter away from him. It was exactly the kind of thing Granger would do - sticking her nose in where it didn't belong, manipulating Harry for his own good, trying to save him from threats that didn't exist.

Madam Pomfrey tried to jolly him out of the sullens and get him to eat, but Draco refused to be cajoled. He was going to sulk, and no clucking, motherly, pillow-plumping witch was going to stop him. But he did take advantage of her current weakness where he was concerned to get some information out of her. All it took was one winsome, innocent look, and she was ready to tell him everything she knew about last night's battle. Unfortunately, that wasn't much.

She was able to fill in the details of his own rescue for him, most of which he had missed while screaming in pain from the stretched link and passing out at the sight of Sirius Black. Draco had to admit to a grudging respect for the Gryffindors, now that he knew the whole story. None of his Slytherin cronies could have handled his father so efficiently or worked together so smoothly. But then, none of the Slytherins could begin to compete with Granger for raw brain power or with Potter for sheer, idiotic bravery. Someday, maybe, he would thank them. Maybe. After he stopped resenting Granger for being a fast healer, blaming Potter for being so bloody noble that he couldn't tell Dumbledore to sod off and get his skinny arse back into the hospital wing, and hating Weasley just for being Weasley and so eminently in need of hating. He'd already thanked Crabbe, and the look of disbelief on the other boy's face had both pleased and embarrassed Draco. 

Draco's mood lifted when, in the middle the afternoon, Professor Snape turned up. He was feeling bored and lonely, with both his arm and his head aching, desperately in need of a distraction, so he welcomed Snape with more warmth than he might have otherwise. Not that he didn't like Snape. He did. And he respected him more than any other teacher in the school. But as a rule, Draco kept that respect and liking to himself, only showing them in his willingness to follow Snape's orders with no more than a token sneer. Cooperation was the most sincere gesture of respect Draco knew how to give.

Today, Draco so far forgot himself as to sit up and break out in a genuine, if slightly frayed smile when he saw the tall form of the Potions Master stalking up to his bed.

"Hallo, Professor."

Snape loomed over him for a moment, his face stamped with its usual sour expression, then he nodded a wordless greeting and dropped a pile of books onto the bed. Folding himself into a handy chair, he said, "You look better today, Malfoy. Does your head still hurt?"

"It always hurts," Draco answered shortly, his attention on the books and his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. "What's this, Professor?"

"Your homework for the rest of the term."

"I thought classes were cancelled until after the holidays."

"They are." Snape flicked a finger at the bag on the top of the pile. "Crabbe gathered up your quills, ink and parchment. McGonagall put together the assignment list. It's not complete, but it's a start."

"Why do I have to do homework?"

"You don't. But you'll want to keep busy while you're shut up in here, and you'll need a lot of practice, if you're going to learn to write with that hand."

Draco wasn't fooled by the sour note in Snape's voice or his depressive choice of words. That was simply Snape. They both knew that Draco was not "shut up" here, except by his own choice. Dumbledore had given him permission to stay in the hospital wing as long as he wanted, and Draco had no intention of exposing himself to the curious eyes of the school until he felt in control of himself and the situation. Snape's gift, however ungraciously delivered, was his way of telling Draco that he understood that decision and would do what he could to help.

"Thank you, Professor."

Snape grunted wordlessly and twisted his mouth into a new kind of grimace. 

Draco hesitated for a moment, then pulled his left hand from its hiding place in the front of his dressing gown to reach for the book bag. He upended it on the mattress, spilling ink bottles, quills and rolls of parchment across the blanket. When he tried to pick up the nearest quill, it snapped and crumpled between his fingers before he was aware that he'd closed them on it. 

Snape watched him crush the fragile quill, his face impassive. Then he plucked the ruined mess from between Draco's fingers and commented, dryly, "You'll find that hand a good deal stronger than your own. Be careful with it."

Draco lifted the adamant hand, frowning at it, and brought his fingertips carefully together. He did not know they had met until they resisted each other, refusing to move. "I can't feel anything."

"There are no nerve endings to feel with."

A whisper of panic stirred inside him. "How can I use my hand, if I can't feel anything with it?"

"You'll learn to use your power to sense contact with the surface of the hand. But that's very subtle magic, a matter of fine-tuning your awareness after you've fully assimilated the hand, and it won't come easily. In the meantime, watch what you're doing or you'll break a lot of quills. And maybe a few other things."

Draco picked up another quill in his right hand and held it up where he could see it clearly. Keeping his eyes fixed on the slender shaft, he brought his crystalline fingers up to either side of it and closed them, slowly. This time, he saw the fingertips make contact with the quill, pushing aside the wisps of feathers to reach the spine. He saw the adamant press into the hollow shaft, bending it slightly with the pressure of his grip. Halting the movement of his fingers before they could break the quill again, Draco let go of the feather with his right hand. It stayed balanced between his fingers for a moment, poised, then it spurted free and spun down to the mattress.

"As I said, it will take some practice," Snape said.

Draco picked up the quill once more in his right hand and twirled it, idly, between his fingers. His eyes stayed on the spinning feather, but they were looking at something else entirely. Snape said nothing to disturb him, letting his mind drift where it would while his hand fiddled with the quill. Finally, he spoke without lifting his eyes.

"Professor, have you heard anything about my father?"

"No."

"Then he got away."

"For now, but we'll find him."

Draco shook his head. There was a cold lump in his stomach, warning him that his father was still alive, still at large, and still bent on taking him away from the safety of Hogwarts. All these wizards thought they knew so much, but they didn't know Lucius Malfoy. Not like Draco did. And the truth was that Draco was far more afraid of what his father could do to him than he was of the Dark Lord. With a sigh, he dropped the quill and reached up to rub his aching head, closing his eyes against the constant, wearing pain. 

It was love that did it. Made you weak and afraid. He loved his father, and that made him vulnerable. He knew his father, and that terrified him. His father both knew and loved him, and that gave his father all the weapons he would ever need to hurt Draco, to shatter him, to destroy him. In that moment, Draco devoutly wished that he did not know his father quite so well and could still believe that Lucius would not use those weapons against him. But the last three days had taught him otherwise.

Sometimes, love wasn't enough. Maybe it never was. Maybe love was just another kind of weapon, another kind of control, another kind of trap. And only a fool walked willingly into a trap.

"Draco?"

He dropped his hand and turned clouded, pain-dulled eyes on Snape.

"I'll get you something for that headache."

He shook his head, making an effort to pull himself together. "I'm all right."

"If you're waiting for Potter to swoop down and..." The swift, deadly look Draco shot him from beneath his lashes cut off the acid taunt unfinished. Snape swallowed his words, scowled darkly for a minute, then snapped, "There's no point in hurting when a simple potion will cure it."

But there was a point. The pain in his head, caused by the ravages of the summoning charm, was a constant reminder to Draco of what his father had done to him in the guise of love, and right now, he needed that reminder.

"_Are_ you waiting for Potter?" Snape demanded.

Draco ignored the question, choosing to change the subject abruptly, though he couldn't quite drag his thoughts away from Potter all together. Sirius Black had become intertwined with Potter in his mind, after seeing Black escort him out of the hospital wing last night, and it was suddenly important to Draco to find out who Black really was.

"What was Sirius Black doing here?" he asked, coolly, betraying nothing.

Snape grunted and bared his teeth in a grimace of distaste. "Black came at Dumbledore's request. He is a member of the Order of the Phoenix, a group of wizards dedicated to fighting Voldemort and defending our world from the threat of darkness. When the Death Eaters besieged the castle, Dumbledore sent a request for help to the leaders of the Order who remained outside - Black, Weasley, Lupin, and some others. They called in the troops and organized a counter attack."

"Did it work?"

"Yes. Black's forces drove off the Death Eaters and lifted the siege. Those of us inside the castle with the power to withstand the Dementors helped. We attacked from inside, while Black attacked from outside. A handful of Death Eaters and more than half of the Dementors were captured."

"So Black is a hero."

"It depends on who you ask. Dumbledore trusts him. Potter fawns over him."

"Why?" The question sounded innocent enough, and Draco kept his eyes down so Snape couldn't read his eagerness in them. "Why does Potter give a damn about him?"

"Black is his godfather. His legal guardian, now that his parents are dead. I suppose Potter is so desperate for a real family that he'll even take a convicted mass-murderer over those foul Muggles who raised him."

"Potter says Black isn't a murderer," Draco commented. Snape grunted again, his lips twisting unpleasantly. "He seems pretty sure, and so does Dumbledore. Would Dumbledore have put him in this Order of the Phoenix, if he thought Black had betrayed the Potters?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Dumbledore is a trusting fool."

Draco hesitated for a moment, then said, very quietly, "There are some people who think he's a fool for trusting you."

"Maybe he is." A fierce, predatory smile lit Snape's face. "Maybe I'm a spy for Voldemort, after all!" Then the smile died, and Snape settled back in his chair with a weary sigh. His face was neither sour nor sneering for once, only thoughtful and very tired. He met Draco's eyes squarely. "No, I'm not a spy, and Dumbledore is right to trust me. I am as committed to the fight as he is."

"But you were..."

"I was a Death Eater, yes. I was one of Voldemort's followers during his initial rise to power." He pushed up his sleeve to expose the hideous mark that defaced his forearm. "I'll wear his mark all my life, though I have long since left his service."

"And... was it worth it? Changing sides?"

Snape did not answer at once. He stared at Draco, his face unreadable, and Draco knew that he was trying to find the words to explain his choice to a young man who now faced much the same decision. At last, he said, "It was. I have never doubted or regretted the path I took. But every such choice comes at a price, Malfoy. You will pay, as I have paid, as Dumbledore and Moody and Potter have paid. And as each and every Death Eater in Voldemort's service has paid. The difference between us and the Death Eaters, is that what we fight for is well worth the price."

"Even if it means your death?" Draco asked.

"Even so." Snape's expression hardened, a hint of the usual derision creeping into his eyes. "But only if you do it for your own sake. You can't do it for Dumbledore, for me, or for... anyone else. Only for yourself. Because in the end, you're the one who pays, Malfoy, and if you're paying for someone else, it will break you."

Draco didn't answer. He didn't need to. The warning was clear.

Snape pushed himself to his feet and stood over Draco, like a towering black bird of ill omen. "You've made a brave and difficult choice, Malfoy. I wish it were a painless one, but nothing that truly matters is painless. Don't make it any worse than it has to be by playing the fool." 

A dull flush crept into Draco's cheeks. He murmured a farewell to Snape without bothering to ask him what his last warning meant. He knew, well enough, and he didn't need Snape rubbing his face in it. The Potions Master strode out of the room, closing the newly-mended door behind him and leaving Draco alone with a host of tangled, contradictory, unwelcome thoughts. 

With movements as deliberate and controlled as his face was blank, Draco swept aside the litter of books and papers, then he stretched out his legs under the blankets and lay back against the pillow. His left hand came up to cover his eyes, and he did not flinch at the cold touch of adamant against his face. 

After a moment, he opened his eyes to watch the play of light through the facets in his palm, hoping that the dance of ice and color would distract him from the chaos in his head. A chaos that, only a few hours ago, would have spilled across the link into Potter, where he would have sorted it out, made sense of it, and sent back... something. A whisper of reassurance, a tingle of warmth, a little extra strength to help Draco master it all. Something of himself.

Draco groaned and jerked his hand away from his eyes. Fumbling about on the mattress with his right hand, he located another quill and held it up in front of his face. Then, wearing a frown of concentration, he lifted his adamant hand to grasp it. On the first try, the shaft bent dangerously, and Draco let it fall rather than break it. On the second try, he was afraid to hold it too firmly and had to search for it on the floor after it slipped from his fingers.

Time after time. Try after try. He kept placing the quill between his unfeeling fingers and closing them on it, struggling to find the right combination of balance and pressure, the right placement for each gleaming fingertip, to hold it securely. And while he fought his fierce, silent battle with that feather, he didn't have to think about everything Snape had said or the doubts that had sprung up in him of their own accord. He didn't have to think of Harry Potter.

Except that he was thinking of Potter, even as he told himself that he would not. He thought about how much he needed Potter, with his myopic green eyes and ridiculous glasses, to look straight through him the way he always did and tell him the truth. Or maybe to just sit there, saying nothing, and make the coldness inside him go away. To make him less afraid. Less confused. Less lonely.

__

Why didn't you come, Potter? he wondered, as he stared blankly at the quill balanced between his adamant fingers. _What's the matter with you? Why didn't you come?_

But he already knew the answer. Potter hadn't come because he was being hopelessly, desperately high-minded and noble. He was trying so hard to live up to Dumbledore's expectations of him, trying so hard not to let anyone down or make a wrong move or tarnish his image as Perfect Bloody Potter, that he wouldn't do what he wanted, only what he thought was _right_. And Dumbledore had convinced him that the _right_ thing to do was to stay away, to let them both heal on their own and pretend that everything between them had died with the link. So now Draco would never know what Harry really _wanted_, only what he thought was right.

That was the way nobility worked. And wasn't it just Draco's miserable luck that he was waiting on such a noble, high-minded, idiotic prat! If he had the sense of a... of a _Hufflepuff_, he'd give up on scar-face Potter and go back to the dungeon where he belonged! If he had the sense of a Hufflepuff. But clearly, he didn't, because the very last thing in his mind was the possibility of returning to the Slytherin dungeon, where Potter couldn't find him.

He let the quill slip from his fingers and tucked his hand in the crook of his right elbow, hiding it from his own eyes. The adamant felt cool and hard against his side. Bloodless. Inhuman. Like Draco himself... or like he always imagined he was meant to be. A perfect, gleaming, unfeeling, deadly thing, with no blood and no tears in him. He had never managed to live up to that image, though, like Potter and his desperate nobility, he had tried awfully hard. But there was always something - or someone - around to make him feel, make him bleed, make him cry.

Well, today he wasn't going to cry. Today he was adamant. All he had to do was to remember that love was a weapon, that a man had to pay for his choices with his own blood, and that anyone who expected help was a fool. And Draco Malfoy was no fool.

*** *** ***

Dumbledore and Sirius sat on either side of the Headmaster's desk, sipping from delicate china cups that steamed invitingly, saying nothing. Dumbledore drank tea; Sirius had opted for coffee - very black. They both wore the look of men with too much on their minds, but who were determined to snatch what peace they could while it lasted. Unfortunately, it could not last long.

The screech of an owl swooping past the window startled Black from his private musings and brought him upright in his chair with a groan. Dumbledore smiled at him in understanding, eyes twinkling over the top of his spectacles.

"I am sorry to send you back into the fray after so little rest, Sirius."

Black shrugged and shoved his unkempt hair back from his forehead. "I've passed worse nights."

"So have I. Some of them quite recently."

"What's next?" Sirius asked, setting down his empty cup and turning bright, dark eyes on the old wizard. 

"I must try to get Hogwarts back on its feet. The Christmas holidays begin in two weeks, and by the time the students return for their next term, I want things as close to normal as possible."

"I expect you'll have most of them on your hands through the holidays. At least their parents know they're safe here."

"We shall see. For you, my dear fellow, I have a less pleasant task."

Sirius grunted, a smile twitching his wide mouth. "Don't you always?"

"The Dementors."

"Ah."

"We must find a place to keep them and a way to contain them. At the moment, the Ministry is holding them, but we cannot tie up the efforts of all our best Aurors for long. Nor can we put them in Azkaban. Nor can we simply banish them, since Voldemort would only call them back again."

"I see your problem. Azkaban is the logical place, if we could find a way to keep them inside." He paused, thinking, then broke out in his rather feral grin. "We need something meaner than a Dementor. How about dragons?"

Dumbledore looked pained. "I'll leave the ultimate solution to you. Subject to the approval of the Ministry, of course."

"What about the Death Eaters?"

"Remus has them well in hand, ably seconded by Arthur Weasley. Alastor was itching to join in the interrogation, but I need him here. And that reminds me, Padfoot..."

Sirius threw him a mock-innocent glance and encountered the Headmaster's most keen and piercing look. He immediately felt as though his skin had been stripped off.

"Before you take yourself off to deal with the Dementors, I would appreciate it if you'd lend Alastor a hand in locating all of the, shall we say, less obvious entrances to the castle. He has the unenviable job of plugging them up."

"I think I can manage that."

"Thank you." Dumbledore gazed at him for a moment, the sharpness fading from his eyes, then asked softly, "How is Harry?"

A scowl darkened Sirius' face. "A mess. What in blazes did you do to him, Headmaster?"

"Only what was necessary. Did he sleep at all?"

"Yes."

"Excellent." Dumbledore visibly relaxed, settling back in his chair and sipping his tea. "He'll mend."

"I'm not so sure about that. He's way beyond upset over losing the link with Malfoy. If this weren't Harry we were talking about, I'd say he was distraught."

"That will pass, now that his emotions are his own. It has been a trying few days for both of them."

"How is Malfoy?"

"Hm. In much the same condition as Harry but hiding it a deal better."

"And this is all just going to go away, now that the link is cut?"

"Did I say that?" Dumbledore asked, his face a study in benign senility.

Sirius growled threateningly. "Headmaster..."

"Calm yourself, Sirius."

"You're playing a dangerous game with those two boys."

"It is not a game, and the situation is not of my making. But I will do whatever I must to resolve it."

"You're speaking in riddles, and it's annoying me."

"I beg your pardon." Dumbledore twinkled at him again, lifting his teacup to mask his smile. "I forgot that you have not been privy to all the, er, heated discussions of this matter. You must simply trust that I know what I'm doing, and that I will never put Harry at risk."

"You did when you linked him to Lucius Malfoy's son."

Sirius could not hide the distaste in his voice, and Dumbledore's smile widened. "You and Minerva have much in common. She refers to him as a 'little demon' and an 'insufferable brat'."

"McGonagall always was a smart woman. And you are trying to sidetrack me, Headmaster. I want to know what you think you're resolving by linking Harry to Malfoy and turning him into an emotional wreck."

"Six years of confusion, distraction, misdirected energies and wasted brilliance. It is quite simple, Sirius. Harry and Draco are inextricably bound together, with or without the Blood Link. That much was always clear. But whether they are destined to be mortal enemies and destroy each other, or to be the strongest of allies and stand together against the darkness, has not been clear to me. It is still not entirely clear."

Sirius grunted sourly. "If you'd seen Harry last night, it would be pretty damned clear."

"You may be right. I devoutly hope that you are." Sirius grunted again. "You do not like young Mr. Malfoy, but you must acknowledge his skill as a wizard and his potential as a weapon against Voldemort."

"He reminds me a little too much of Snape."

"My point, exactly. Severus has been invaluable to us." Dumbledore leaned forward, a hand outstretched toward Sirius, cutting off his acid retort. "Put aside your dislike of the Malfoys and your desire to protect Harry for a moment. Think of what it would mean to have Lucius Malfoy's son - a powerful wizard in his own right - completely committed to us. And think of the alternative: Harry standing alone, not just against Voldemort but against Draco and his father as well. That kind of enmity obsesses and drains a person. It has done so to Harry for six years. But when the drain is no longer there and the opposing power is joined to his, complementing and supporting his, how much stronger will he be?"

"Are you so sure of Malfoy?" Sirius asked, slowly.

"I am sure that he will be one or the other - Harry's greatest ally or his direst enemy. His strength or his weakness."

"From what I saw last night, he is Harry's weakness either way."

"A vulnerability, perhaps. We all have them. But they do not make us weak, only give us more to fight for."

"I still think you're playing a dangerous game."

"Trust me, Sirius. And trust Harry. He'll sort this out and make us proud of him, no matter what happens."

"It's not you or Harry I have trouble trusting. It's that... Slytherin."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily at him. "Harry has faced down everything from a basilisk to Voldemort himself. Do you honestly think he can't handle one Slytherin? Just watch."

"Thankfully, I won't be here to see him in action." Sirius pushed himself tiredly to his feet and settled his cloak around his shoulders. "But you will let me know what happens?"

"Of course."

"And you will look after Harry?"

"I always do."

Sirius nodded and turned for the door. "Good bye, for now, Headmaster."

"Good luck, Sirius."

Black nodded again, lifted his hand in farewell, then slipped out the door and was gone.

**__**

To be continued...


	13. Inevitable

****

Author's Note: I hope you're all enjoying _Order of the Phoenix_. I expect most people are still reading and discussing it, so I don't expect many of you to find this chapter. But for those - like me and Ice Lupus - who could use something to lighten the mood a little, here's a bit of slash for you!

Enjoy! -- Claire

*** *** ***

****

Chapter 13: _Inevitable_

Like all secrets at Hogwarts, the story of Lucius Malfoy's midnight raid on the castle had spread to the entire student body within a day. Those few who knew all the details weren't talking, but that only set the rest to speculating all the more avidly. No one really expected Granger and Weasley to say anything. They were Potter Loyalists to the death and knew how to hold their tongues. But it came as some surprise to the curious that most of Gryffindor House, including all of the sixth-years, and a fair proportion of Slytherin House refused to say a word about it.

Everyone knew that Draco Malfoy had stayed at Hogwarts in defiance of his father's summons to join the Death Eaters, though why remained a total mystery, and everyone knew that Dumbledore had stood up to Malfoy Senior when he came to collect his son. Most of the castle had heard the final confrontation between the two wizards. But from that point, the stories got wilder with every telling.

Somehow, Lucius Malfoy got into Hogwarts and tried to take Draco out by force, but Harry Potter stopped him. Harry Potter cut off Draco's hand. No, it was his leg. No, it was both his hands, so he'd never use a wand again. Harry Potter sent Lucius to Hell in a fireball, or sent him back to You-Know-Who in a cardboard box. Harry Potter used an Unforgivable Curse on Draco's father and Dumbledore was hushing it up to keep him out of Azkaban. Whatever the truth, Harry Potter was, once again, the center of furious controversy. The school was divided into camps and up in arms over Potter's latest exploit.

__

So, what else is new? Hermione thought, as her eyes traveled around the Great Hall and saw nearly every head turn away surreptitiously. She tried not to let it bother her - a necessary skill for Harry's friends - but it was very difficult when she didn't have Harry beside her, holding his head up proudly under all those avid stares. If Harry were okay, none of this would matter to her. But Harry was definitely not okay, and no one knew this better than Hermione. She and Ron had done their best, but he had withdrawn into a haze of pain and depression that they could not penetrate. 

Hermione knew Harry well enough to have a fair idea what was bothering him. He would deny it hotly, if she charged him with it, but the simple fact was that Harry was afraid. He had wracked his brain for logical explanations and excuses, told himself that he had done his duty and now had no further part in Malfoy's recovery, and wallowed in doubt 'til his nails were chewed to the quick and his eyes dull with exhaustion. But when all was said and done, he knew how he felt and what he wanted. Hermione was sure of it. 

Harry had long since sorted out all the tangled threads of emotion snarled up in him by the Blood Link and come to the stark conclusion that he loved Malfoy. He was just too afraid to admit it, even to himself, and Hermione couldn't honestly blame him. Any normal person would be afraid of feelings as strong as Harry's, and any person with a grain of sense would be terrified to expose that kind of weakness to Draco Malfoy, the Human Venom Sack. Add to that the fact that Harry still felt hideously guilty for cutting off Malfoy's hand, and you had a recipe for misery that Snape would be proud to bottle.

Harry had refused to come down for dinner tonight. It was not the first meal he'd skipped in the last week, but his tendency to retreat into his bedroom and avoid even his fellow Gryffindors was becoming more and more pronounced with every day that passed. And Hermione was growing more and more frightened for him.

She was working her way through a lovely, rich pudding - and not tasting a bit of it - when she caught a movement by the door from the corner of her eyes. Turning to look, she froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. 

Across the table from her, Dean Thomas demanded, "What's up, Granger? You look like you swallowed a fire nettle."

Hermione did not answer him, but dug her elbow into Ron's ribs and hissed at him, "I don't believe it. Look who just walked in."

Ron obediently turned to look. "Bloody Hell! I thought he was still in the hospital wing."

"So did Harry. Oh, no! Harry! I'm so glad he didn't come to dinner tonight... do you suppose he knew?"

Ron shook his head emphatically. "He'd be hiding under his bed, talking to dust bunnies."

By now, most of the room had noticed the new arrival, and a weird silence had fallen over the Hall. With an aplomb that only he could achieve, Draco Malfoy walked calmly over to the Slytherin table and sat down next to Malcolm Baddock. As he did so, a kind of sigh went around the Hall, and a low hum of whispers began. Malfoy ignored the whispers and reached for a bowl of fried potatoes. Beside him, Malcolm looked as though he wanted to faint but didn't have the nerve. Because the hand Malfoy stretched out across the table was his left one.

He wore no glove, and his sleeve pulled back from his wrist as he stretched out his arm, exposing his left hand to the eyes of his fellow students as surely as if he'd stood up on the dais and waved to them all with it. In the light of hundreds of candles, the adamant flickered and shone like a living thing - a strange, inhuman, unutterably beautiful thing - and moved with all the ease of flesh and bone. But it wasn't flesh and bone. It was crystal, one Gryffindor whispered. No, glass, another countered. Dean, who was standing unashamedly on his bench to see over the heads of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, announced that it was diamond and pointed out how the candlelight broke into colors across its surface.

Hermione didn't bother to educate them on the magical properties of adamant. The rumor mill would disseminate the truth soon enough. She was staring in wonder at Malfoy, her eyes growing to the size of dinner plates, and wondering how he had the nerve - the bloody, incredible nerve - to waltz into the Great Hall as if nothing untoward had ever happened to him and sit down to a meal. It was stunning. It was amazing. It filled her with an admiration she had never before felt for the Slytherin. But it also made her blood run cold.

Giving Ron another jab in the ribs, she murmured, "We have to warn Harry."

"Why? So he can stay in his room for the rest of the school year?"

"Don't be stupid, Ron. Somehow they've got to figure this out, and soon, or Harry will turn into a ghost and Draco will..." She watched him for a moment, seeing his cool, distant composure, and finished, "ice over completely. And don't you say anything rude, Ronald Weasley! Draco chose to stay with Dumbledore and fight against You-Know-Who. You may think he's a slimy git, but he's on our side, and if we're going to win this war..."

"I wasn't going to be rude," Ron snapped, cutting off her lecture.

"Yes, you were."

"No, I wasn't." Ron gave her back a level glare. "Are you forgetting that I helped Harry save the slimy git? I may not like him - and I _don't_ - but I know better than to fight Harry _and_ Dumbledore _and_ McGonagall... For crying out loud, Hermione! He's even got Madam Pomfrey going loopy over him! I saw her give him a chocolate frog and pat him on the head. I swear it. It made me so sick I almost threw up. Nice old Madam Pomfrey patting Malfoy on the head! _Eurgh!_"

Hermione cast him an exasperated look. "Can we stick to the point?"

"The point is that Malfoy's got some kind of hold on Harry, much as I hate that thought, and he isn't going anywhere. Harry's miserable. He's pining away like... like the heroine in one of Ginny's tacky romance novels. And I'm not such an idiot that I don't know why."

"Me either," Hermione said, grimly, with another sideways look at Malfoy.

"So either we get them sorted out and learn to deal with that ferret-faced swine, or we lose Harry."

"Oh, Ron!" The look of glowing pride in Hermione's face made Ron blush furiously. "You are such a good friend!" She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, deepening his blush to purple. "And you're absolutely right."

With that, she bounced up off the bench and headed across the Hall with a purposeful stride. Once again, the room fell strangely silent, as Hermione marched up to Draco and said, "We need to talk, Malfoy."

He looked startled, then his face closed up tight and his usual faint sneer twisted his lips. "Nice to know you missed me, Granger."

"Shut up, and follow me."

With an elegant shrug, Draco climbed over the bench and strolled out of the Hall in Hermione's wake. The moment the doors shut behind them, the room exploded with eager voices.

In the entry hall, Hermione made for the shadowed corner beside the wide, marble stairs. She parked herself with her back to the wall and her arms crossed, then she turned her most piercing, know-it-all gaze on Malfoy. He lounged against a convenient suit of armor, looking neither curious nor embarrassed nor any of the other things one might expect under the circumstances. His face had gone perfectly blank.

"How are you?" Hermione asked.

The startled look flashed across his face again, then vanished. He lifted his hands, spread wide, to offer his immaculate person for her examination. "Gorgeous as ever."

To her own surprise, Hermione laughed. Two weeks ago, she would have wanted to hit him. Today, she took a moment to look at him and decide that he was right. He was as gorgeous as ever. No wonder poor Harry was eating his heart out over this beautiful and infuriating little beast. Nodding toward the glittering hand, she asked, "Does it work?"

"Better than the real thing." Hermione watched, fascinated, as he turned to the suit of armor and casually bent one of its massive shoulder plates between his fingers. Draco twisted the thick metal until it stuck out at right angles to the rest of the suit, then he just as casually bent it back into place.

"Oh, my," was all Hermione could think of to say.

Draco smirked at her, his shoulders once more propped indolently against the armor. "Did you drag me out of dinner to ask after my health? I'm touched."

"I need to talk to you about Harry." 

Was it her imagination, or did his face just freeze? 

"What about him?"

No, it was not her imagination. His face had turned to blank, flawless ice and his eyes were so tightly shuttered that she wondered if he could even see out of them.

"He's not doing well."

"What's wrong with him?"

Hermione licked her lips nervously. Now that it came down to it, she did not know if she could say the things she needed to say to this aloof, ice-bound boy. But if she didn't, then Harry would go on suffering. "He misses you," she blurted out.

Draco blinked at her, clearly startled out of his composure. "Me?"

"Of course _you_, you infernal idiot," she snapped. "I know you don't care about anyone but yourself, Malfoy, but you might consider what Harry went through for you! What he gave so you could get away from your father..."

"I know." His words, quiet as they were, halted her in her tracks. 

She looked up and met his storm-cloud eyes, and something inside her broke at the terrible longing she saw there. "Then please don't let this go on," she whispered.

"What do you suggest I do about it?"

"Go see him."

"You... you actually _want_ me to see Potter?"

"Yes."

Malfoy stared at her as if she had sprouted an extra head in the last two seconds. "I thought you were going to threaten me with foul hexes and major bodily harm, if I didn't stay as far away from him as possible."

"Well, I'm not. So quit being such a prat and go see him. I'll even give you the password to the Gryffindor common room, if you'll..."

"Oh, no. I'm not quite _that_ big a prat!"

"This is not an ambush. I swear. Malfoy, please. _Please!_ This is probably the only time in your entire life you'll hear me beg you for anything, but I'm begging! Talk to Harry! Let him say whatever he has to say, and promise you'll listen to him! And then... I don't know." It was a sign of how thrown Malfoy was that he made no attempt to deride her for 'not knowing' something. "But it will have to be easier for Harry, whatever it is, than having you walk out on him like this."

"Me? Walk out on _him?_ What are you talking about? I didn't go anywhere. I made a _point_ of not going anywhere as long as I could, hanging around the hospital wing so I wouldn't have to go back to the dungeon where..." He broke off and swallowed uncomfortably, then snapped, "I just spent a week sitting on that damned ward with nothing to do but talk to Pomfrey about healing potions! And if you think I did it for fun..."

"Malfoy."

"Bloody Hell! What do you think I've been waiting for all this time? My crystal fingernails to grow?"

"Malfoy..."

"I've been waiting for Perfect Bloody Potter to get a clue!"

"Malfoy, shut up!" Draco shut up. He blinked at her, startled as much by his own vehemence as by her shout. "Okay, let's start over. You've been hiding in the hospital wing all week _why_, exactly?"

"Because it was the only place I could stay where Potter could find me if... if he wanted to. But he didn't want to, obviously, which I finally got. Now I'm back in my dungeon, where everyone agrees I belong."

"He did want to find you, but he didn't know he was... welcome."

"Even Potter isn't that stupid."

"Apparently he is." Hermione gazed at him thoughtfully for a long moment, then decided that there was no point in holding back. "I'll be completely straight with you, Malfoy, but if you ever use it against Harry, I'll personally disembowel you and string your intestines on the Whomping Willow like Christmas tinsel. Do you understand me?" He nodded mutely. "Okay, here's the problem. Harry is afraid."

"Of what?"

"You." She stared very hard at Malfoy's face as she spoke and saw no flicker of triumph or gloating in it, only surprise and, just maybe, a twinge of pain. "He's so torn up with guilt over what he did to your hand that he just assumes you hate him for it."

"I told him I didn't."

"That was before Dumbledore cut the link and you two spent a week apart, licking your wounds and brooding. Now Harry has worked himself into a state, and the only way he's going to believe you don't hate him is if you convince him of it. Don't ask me _how_ you're supposed to convince him, because that is _not_ my problem! And I don't want to hear about it. Ever. But trust me, Malfoy, it won't be hard."

"He wants to see me."

"Yes."

"Does he know we're having this conversation?"

"No, and he'll probably murder me when he finds out. He may be lovesick, but he still has some pride." Even as the words left her mouth, Hermione realized what she had said and blushed a deep, painful red, but Malfoy didn't seem to notice.

"Idiot," he remarked, distractedly.

"You're both idiots, in my book, but Harry is one idiot I care about very, very much. And if he can't be happy 'til he's worked this out with you, then I'll put up with an extra idiot underfoot for his sake. Don't think for a minute that I'm doing this for you, Malfoy."

"Perish the thought."

"Well? What's it going to be? Do I hand over the password and keep the rest of Gryffindor House out of the dormitory 'til the walls stop shaking? Or do I torture you with foul hexes and major bodily harm?"

Draco shook his head, his face still distracted and his gaze turned inward. "I won't risk that ambush. Not you. I know you aren't trying to sucker me. But that tower is full of Gryffindors who would love to see me planted head down in Hagrid's garden. Besides," he pulled abstractly on the suit of armor, mangling its plates without noticing, "Potter would feel cornered."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"It has to be neutral territory. He only shows if he wants to."

"He wants to."

Malfoy's lips tightened as he came to some kind of decision. With his jaw set and his eyes flashing that way, he looked quite fierce and even more devastating than ever. Hermoine felt suddenly very sorry for Harry. "Okay. Tell Potter... tell him I'll be out by the lake tomorrow, after breakfast."

Hermione waited for him to go on, but he was apparently finished. She stared at him, blankly, and said, "Is that it? Do you think you could be a _little_ more disinterested?"

"Yes. I could walk away, right now, and leave you to deal with Potter."

Hermione gazed at his haughty, furious expression and, to her surprise, saw the fear lurking beneath it quite clearly. He was every bit as afraid as Harry, she judged, and yet he was still trying to make the first move Hermione had demanded of him - however oblique a move it might be. She broke out in a beaming smile. "I'll tell him."

Malfoy hesitated for a moment, then he gave her a curt nod and strode off across the entry hall without a backward glance. 

*** *** ***

Harry lay on his bed in the Gryffindor tower, eyes closed, trying not to think. He had begged off dinner in the Great Hall tonight and dissuaded the Creevey brothers from hanging around the common room to keep him company. Now he was pretending to sleep, so he didn't have to join his friends downstairs. He could hear no more than a wordless hum of voices, but he knew what they were talking about - what everyone in Hogwarts was talking about - and he felt quite sure that he'd rather starve to death behind these bed curtains than hear any more on the subject.

The door to the tower room swung open, but Harry ignored it determinedly. Footsteps approached his bed, and he turned his face into the pillow, willing his visitors to go away and leave him alone. The footsteps halted right beside him, there was a pause, then Hermione's voice said, "We need to talk, Harry."

He cracked an eye open and glared up at her. "I don't want to talk."

"You don't have a choice. Now stop sulking and sit up." She gave him a poke in the ribs and grabbed his legs to swing them off the bed.

At this point, Harry decided that fighting the inevitable would take more energy than bowing to it, and he rolled over. He found both Ron and Hermione standing over him - Ron looking intensely uncomfortable and ready to run at a moment's notice; Hermione looking mulish. With a soul-deep sigh of weariness, Harry pushed himself into a sitting position and reached for his glasses.

"What's up?"

Hermione sat down on the end of his bed and fixed him with eyes that glinted in a very disturbing manner. "We need to talk to you about Malfoy."

Harry stiffened. He tried, with all his might, to achieve that lovely, blank, emotionless look that Draco did so well, but he only succeeded in looking sullen. Or maybe panicked. It was hard to tell from inside his own face, but either way, it wasn't the effect he was hoping for. "I don't want to talk about Malfoy with you or anyone!" he croaked, his throat suddenly too tight for normal speech.

"Harry, my dear, you can't live this way anymore. You can't."

He swallowed convulsively and his eyes pricked with tears at her gentle tone. "I know."

"We're worried about you. Not just Ron and I, but all your friends, Professor McGonagall, the Headmaster, Snape..."

"Snape?!"

"Snape," Hermione repeated, firmly. "He asked me about you _twice_ yesterday."

Harry shot a wild look at Ron and demanded, "Is she having some kind of breakdown?"

Ron shook his head mournfully. "Not her."

"Look, guys, I know I've been a little out of it lately, but..."

"Don't even try it, Potter," Hermione snapped, in such a remarkable imitation of Draco's sarcastic tone that it made Harry flinch, as if she'd just pinched him hard enough to bruise. "We're your friends - your _real_ friends - and we know you're hurting. We even understand why."

Once again, Harry's eyes flew to Ron's face, looking for some kind of confirmation there. To his immense surprise, Ron did not look angry or sullen or spoiling for a fight. He looked worried. "I... don't know if you do. Not really."

Ron cleared his throat and spoke without looking at Harry. "Yeah, we do. The truth is, Harry, that I think you're completely nutters, but I'd rather have you nutters and happy than going into a decline."

"A _what?!_"

"A decline. That's what the heroines in the romance novels Ginny reads do, when they think the hero is dead or has run off with some other girl. They go into a decline - stop eating, stop sleeping, sort of fade away..."

Harry gave a heartfelt groan and slid over to lie face down in his pillow, locking his hands behind his head. "This is so pathetic! Why don't you just kill me now and dump my body in the lake?!"

"Come on, Harry, it's not so bad." Hermione gave his leg a shake and urged, sensibly, "We're not making fun of you, honestly. Were you, Ron?"

"He asked me what a decline was..."

"Ron."

"I'm not making fun of you, Harry. I can sort of, almost, in a dim and shabby kind of way, understand what you're going through... if I close my eyes really tight and pretend it's Fleur Delacour we're talking about." Harry groaned again, without lifting his head, and Ron sighed. "Come on, Harry. I mean it. I'm not making fun and I do sort of understand. I can't really, because..."

"I know," Harry said, his voice muffled by the pillow, "because it's Malfoy and it's sick."

"No. Because I've never felt like that about anybody. I don't think it's something you get until you feel it."

Harry looked up at him, startled to hear such words coming from his mouth. "Do you mean that?"

"Yeah. And if half of what Hermione says is true, it's not something I'm ever going to feel, which is maybe a good thing, because if this is what it's like then I don't want anywhere near it."

Harry's perplexed gaze shifted to Hermione, silently asking what she had told Ron to bring on this attack of sympathy. She shrugged and said, a trifle stiffly, "I just told him what I always thought about you and Malfoy. That there was something weird and... and kind of inevitable about the connection between you two. It's always been there, even when you loathed each other."

"How did you...?" Harry began.

Hermione interrupted him with a caustic snort. "Honestly! It was obvious to anyone with half a brain."

Harry muttered, "Which is why it went right past me."

"But Hermione's right, isn't she?" Ron pursued, doggedly. "All this time, when you were trying to beat the Slytherins at everything, it was all about Malfoy."

"Of course it was! But it was about..." Harry broke off, suddenly sick and tired of pretending. "Yes. You're right. I was drawn to him and I couldn't help it, just like I can't help it now. The only difference is that now I don't _want_ to help it."

Hermione eyed him narrowly, and he sensed that this was the crux of the matter for her. "Then nothing has changed since they cut the Blood Link."

"Plenty has changed, but not that." Harry sat up again and slumped forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "I wish it had."

"Really?"

"Sometimes." He rubbed his eyes tiredly, pushing his glasses up on his forehead, and murmured, "When I still had the link, I was terrified that it was the only thing between us, and that when it was gone I'd lose all of these... feelings. I thought that would be the worst thing that could happen to me. Now the link is gone, Draco is gone, and all I have left is a bunch of feelings I don't know how to deal with and the fear that I'll..." he closed his eyes tightly against the sight of his friends' faces and whispered, "that I'll go crazy."

"But he isn't gone, Harry." He did not open his eyes, and she reached out to clasp his knee, shaking it again to emphasize her words. "He isn't forced to stay less than thirty feet from you anymore, but that doesn't mean he's gone."

There was a long pause, during which Harry refused to look at her and Ron chewed his lip in silent distress. Finally, Hermione went on, "We saw him at dinner tonight. He's been released from the hospital wing and gone back to the Slytherin dungeon. And he's wearing that adamant hand of his without a trace of self-consciousness, I might add. I think he likes it."

Harry opened his eyes at last. He knew they were full of agony and longing, betraying him, but he didn't care. "Did you talk to him?"

"Yes."

"How is he?"

"I couldn't tell. Malfoy isn't the most forthcoming person, and he's very hard to read. But he seemed basically well. He _looks_ fine - elegant and sneering, just like old times."

Harry laughed, but it came out as more of a sob. "Was he horribly rude to you?"

"No, not really. He was almost charming, in a Malfoy-ish kind of way."

He closed his eyes again. He had to, or he'd totally humiliate himself by crying in front of Ron and Hermione. Too many days had passed with no glimpse of Draco around the school and no one willing to mention his name in Harry's presence. It was like being lost in the desert, wandering in circles looking for water, knowing it was there but never finding it, while his heart slowly dried up and shriveled in his chest. Hermione's words struck him like the first raindrops of a storm - tantalizing, full of promise, but wholly inadequate to quench his thirst. And they hurt... God, how they hurt!

"Harry?"

"What?" he whispered, eyes clenched tightly shut.

"Malfoy asked me to give you a message."

Now it was coming. The blow to his chest that would shatter his ribcage and crush his heart to bleeding ruin.

Hermione's hand touched his knee again, and her voice was soft with sympathy. "He said that he would be out by the lake tomorrow morning, after breakfast."

Harry's eyes flew open, careless of the tears that spilled down his cheeks. "He said that?"

"Yes."

"He wants to talk to me?"

"That wasn't part of the message, but..."

"He wouldn't say it. He'd make you guess."

"Then yes, he wants to talk to you," she said, her voice firm with conviction.

Harry looked from Hermione to Ron, his face a study in amazement and the light back in his eyes for the first time in a week. "Is that why you both marched up here and cornered me in my bed? To tell me that Malfoy wants to see me?"

Ron shifted his weight awkwardly. "Not exactly."

Harry felt the lurking panic twitch to life again. "What, then?"

"Well, we did sort of. But first we wanted to make sure that... to see if..."

"Spit it out, Ron," Harry said, his voice edged with nervousness.

"Okay, here's the thing. We both know you're obsessed with Malfoy, and you're putting yourself through hell over what you did to him. But we weren't so sure that it was, well, serious."

"You mean, you thought I was doing this for _fun?!_"

"No, more like guilt."

"And habit," Hermione interjected.

"Oh, great. My two best friends think I'm deliberately driving myself insane out of guilt!"

"Well, you're hiding up here and avoiding Malfoy out of guilt," Ron pointed out, "and that's kind of insane, under the circumstances. Don't get mad, Harry. We just wanted to talk to you and figure out how far this thing with Malfoy had really gone - how deep it went with you - before we gave you his message and sent you running down to the lake to meet him. If you were just doing your Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World routine and telling yourself you owe it to Malfoy to eat your heart out as payback for cutting off his hand, then we didn't want to help you do it. That's all. We didn't want to get you into worse trouble by encouraging you to get involved with a..." Ron broke off and flushed slightly. 

"I get it," Harry said, sparing him the effort of recovering his near-blunder.

"That part was my idea," Ron insisted, stoutly. "Hermione wanted to give you the message straight out, but I said we had to make sure we weren't setting you up for another big disaster."

"We both agreed, Ron..."

"No. Tell the truth. I'm the one who doubted how you felt. Hermione's said all along that you have it bad for Malfoy. She cornered him and told him he had to stop torturing you and work things out, one way or another."

"She _what?!_"

"I didn't have to ask twice," Hermione said, in a small, apologetic voice. "He was perfectly willing to see you and glad I told him..."

"Hermione, I could _kill_ you!"

"But you're still going to go, aren't you?" Ron asked.

Harry thought about it for all of half a second, and answered, "Of course I am."

"So Hermione did the right thing. And I agreed to back her up, if we talked to you first and made sure you were really... I mean..."

"Here we go again," Harry sighed. "Ron, I understand. Don't strain something trying to say it out loud."

"I can say it!" Ron protested. His face flushed darkly, and his lips compressed into a tight, disapproving line, while Hermione eyed him with fond exasperation. "You're in love with Malfoy. There! I said it!"

Harry felt a strange, terrifying thrill go through him. He hadn't spoken those words, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, but he recognized the truth of them the instant he heard them on Ron's lips, and the truth burned through him like silver-gilt fire. He laughed raggedly, struggling to hide his moment of recognition, and said, "How do you guys manage to make me feel better and worse at the same time?"

"How worse? We just brought you news that your whatever-he-is wants to kiss and make up..."

"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?"

"Okay, so he only wants to talk, but who can resist the Famous Harry Potter for long?"

"Do you want a list?" Harry asked, dryly.

Ron waved that away disdainfully. "That's only because you never really tried with any of them. You could have had Fleur, if you'd turned on the Potter charm. Or Cho. Or even Ginny! But you just made cow's eyes at them a few times, then wandered off, pretending you'd been rejected, when the problem was that you didn't _try_." Ron broke off to think for a moment, then added, grudgingly, "Okay, so maybe you had a good reason for not trying. But you can't tell me you aren't trying, this time! And I'll bet you a gross of chocolate frogs that he caves the first time you bat those big, green eyes at him." 

"I don't think this is an appropriate conversation," Hermione said, severely.

But Ron was paying her no mind. He was staring at Harry with wide, sickened eyes, having just realized what he'd said to his best friend in the whole world. "Bloody Hell! Did I just bet that you could seduce Draco Malfoy? _Draco Malfoy?!_ I think I'm going to puke!"

Harry couldn't help it. Ron looked so horrified, and the whole situation was so ridiculous that, in spite of his own misery, he burst out laughing. "Will you ever forgive me for this, Ron?"

"Only if you let me fly your Firebolt during the next practice. For as long as I want!"

"Done."

"Then I forgive you. But I think I need some pepper imps to burn the bad taste of that wager out of my mouth." Shuddering dramatically, Ron fired a lopsided smile at Harry and turned to rummage through his trunk in search of sweets.

Harry smiled at his bent head, feeling his face soften with affection. Suddenly, Hermione sat forward on the bed and leaned close to bring her mouth to his ear. In a private whisper, she said, "Don't worry, Harry. Ron's perfectly right."

"Don't you start," he muttered.

"I'm not making fun. I talked to Malfoy, so I know. Just bat your eyes and see what happens." She dropped a light kiss on his cheek, then spun away and got off the bed before he could react. "I'll see you both at breakfast tomorrow."

Harry watched her go with embarrassment and hope warring for control of his face. As she sailed out of the room, all he could think of were how many hours remained between now and tomorrow and how terribly long they would seem. It never occurred to him that he might sleep.

*** *** ***

The two boys sat together beside the lake, wrapped in their cloaks, staring thoughtfully into the dark water. Winter had closed in properly during the night, and the sky was a solid, leaden grey that seemed to lie heavily on the towers of the castle and the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest. It was a day to gather round a crackling fire in the common room, sipping hot chocolate, not to sit on the brittle, winter-brown grass while the wind sliced effortlessly through cloak and clothing. But neither boy seemed in a hurry to seek shelter in the castle. Nor did they seem in any hurry to talk.

Oddly enough, after days of wanting nothing more than to talk to Draco, Harry now found himself with surprisingly little to say. He sat quietly on the grass, legs crossed, huddled down in his cloak with his chin deeply buried in his red and gold Gryffindor scarf, and let the minutes slide by without comment. His fear and guilt had not abated. The nervous, jangling excitement that had kept him awake all night still fluttered in his stomach and made his fingertips burn with periodic jolts of adrenaline. But he found himself strangely content to sit and wait, just so long as Draco was there with him.

Draco sat in comfortable silence, leaning back on his hands, his grey eyes distant and his face calm. Whatever he might be thinking or feeling, he betrayed nothing. He wore his hair loose around his shoulders - something Harry hand never seen him do before the siege - and the effect was startling. The mop of shining, windblown hair softened his sharp features, took their hard edges off, and made him seem far more like a human boy than a Medieval painting. He wasn't even wearing a sneer, which both unnerved and encouraged Harry. 

Harry flicked a sideways glance at Draco and let his eyes slide down to the hand braced behind him on the grass. It was beautiful, in an eerie sort of way, and Harry had to admit that it suited him. A white crystal glove – perfectly human in its contours and perfectly alien in its touch. 

His eyes moved back up from the hand of adamant to the face of the boy who wore it. Was he angry? Hurt? Relieved? Indifferent? What emotions moved behind those storm-cloud eyes? Once, only a short time ago, Harry would have known without trying. The emotions would have filled him, even as they filled Draco, and he would have known what to say or do to answer them. But today… today they were separate people again. Isolated. Alone.

Draco felt Harry's eyes on him and turned his head to return his look. Cloudy and clear all at once. That's what Draco's eyes were. Grey, silver, translucent, opaque. A window into his soul that opened on blank walls. Draco the Inscrutable.

He blinked once, like a cat in the sun, and asked, "What are you thinking, Potter?"

The question startled Harry, but he answered promptly, "That I wish I knew what was going on in your head."

"Just ask me."

"You won't tell me the truth."

"Yes, I will." Draco's eyes looked straight into Harry's, unwavering. "Ask me."

"Okay. Are you angry with me?"

"No."

"You don't even want to know about what?"

Draco's eyebrows rose and a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "How many things am I supposed to be angry about? Are we going all the way back to first year?"

"I cut your hand off!"

Draco shifted his weight forward and raised his left hand, turning it so that the dull winter light flowed into the white crystal. "I noticed. Pretty stylish, huh?"

Suddenly, while Harry was hunting for something to say, Draco reached forward and rested his fingertip lightly against the scar on Harry's forehead, brushing aside a lock of hair as he did so. Harry jumped, startled both by the gesture and by the touch of adamant against his skin. It was cold and impersonal, but once he recovered his composure, Harry found that he didn't mind it at all. Draco frowned slightly in concentration as he traced the scar with his finger, drawing a chill lightning bolt on Harry's forehead. Then he pulled his hand away, and Harry gave an inward sigh of disappointment.

"The only bad thing about this hand is that it doesn't feel anything." Draco shot Harry a look from between his lashes and asked, softly, "What about you, Potter? Will you tell me the truth?"

"I always do."

A mocking smile twitched at Draco's lips for a moment. "I forgot. You're Saint Potter."

"Are you trying to insult me, so I'll run away? It won't work, Malfoy. I won't go away, no matter what foul things come out of your mouth."

Draco looked amused at that. "I bet I could come up with something. Slugs, maybe."

"What truth do you want to hear from me?" Harry demanded.

"Why didn't you come back?"

Harry hesitated for a bare moment, then answered as honestly as he could. "I wanted to, but I was afraid."

"Granger said that you were afraid I hated you, because of this." He lifted his crystalline hand again.

"That was part of it."

"What was the rest?"

"I was... afraid that my feelings were a lie." Harry turned his gaze on the iron-grey surface of the lake, avoiding the lighter grey of Draco's eyes fixed so intently on him. "I thought that maybe, with the link gone, there was nothing between us but hatred. That I had been fooling myself. That... you would laugh at me, or worse."

As he said the words, he braced himself for Draco's answer, knowing that he had laid himself open to attack and he had no reserves of strength with which to meet it. If Malfoy flattened him now, he would never get back up again. But Draco simply asked, his voice level, "Were you fooling yourself?"

"I don't know." Harry lifted his eyes to the other boy's face. "Am I?"

Draco did not look away, but he shifted uncomfortably under Harry's steady gaze. Something suspiciously like a blush stole into his cheeks. "You're doing it again."

"What?"

"Looking at me like... that."

A tiny, triumphant smile lifted the corners of Harry's lips. "I can't help it," he murmured. "I didn't get to look at you for a whole week. I have to make up for lost time."

"Well, stop it!" Draco snapped.

"Why?"

"It makes me uncomfortable."

Harry's smile widened. He could feel his confidence growing as Draco's faded, the small kernel of hope and certainty inside him expanding in the heat of Malfoy's embarrassment. He didn't exactly want to see Malfoy squirm - though he had to admit that it was kind of fun - but he knew that only an emotion as intense and frightening as the one filling Harry right now could possibly ruffle Draco's composure this way.

"Why?" he asked again. 

To his amazement, Draco flushed a deeper red and turned to stare furiously at the looming shadow of the forest. "The last time you looked at me that way, you... Well, you know what you did."

"Yes."

Draco waited for him to go on, but Harry was determined not to put his foot in his mouth by volunteering anything. After a moment of tense silence, Draco said, "You still haven't told me if that was you or the Blood Link."

"That was me."

Draco's shoulders stiffened and his breath came more quickly. "You sound awfully sure of yourself."

"I am. I spent most of this last week thinking about exactly that and..."

"And what?" Draco asked in a ghost of a whisper.

"Look at me, Draco." The other boy did not move. "Look at me. Please."

Reluctantly, Draco turned his head and lifted his eyes to meet Harry's. He still wore his blank, guarded expression, but his eyes were afire with some emotion that Harry could not name. Whatever it was - fear or anger or eagerness - it burned too fiercely for him to conceal.

"I spent most of my time thinking about what happened in the hospital wing," Harry said, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the other boy, "wondering why I did it, whether I really wanted it, and whether I wanted to do it again now that the link was cut."

"What did you decide?"

In answer, Harry unfolded his legs and rocked forward onto his knees. Draco did not move, did not seem to breath, and Harry had a brief vision of a deer caught in the headlights of an onrushing truck. Then he closed his eyes and leaned in to bring his lips to Draco's.

It was the very lightest of kisses, a fleeting touch, and Draco's mouth was as tense, as still as the rest of him. But in that moment of contact, Harry knew, with absolute certainty, that none of it had been a lie. The link may have awoken his emotions, but they belonged to him as surely as his hands and feet and messy black hair and wizarding power. His mind knew it, his heart, his body, every part of him. And every part of him wanted Draco so desperately that he almost sobbed aloud with the pain of it.

He abruptly sat back on his heels, breaking the feather-light kiss, and looked questioningly at Draco. The other boy was staring at him, eyes wide and stunned. Harry smiled crookedly, fighting to control the urge to grab him and kiss him again, and murmured, "Don't forget to breathe."

Draco let the air out of his lungs in a rush, his face once again flushed with unnatural color. He opened his mouth to speak, but then changed his mind and looked away from Harry, the color now draining from his cheeks as quickly as it had risen. Harry watched, half amused and half alarmed, wondering what would finally come out of Draco's mouth when he collected himself. But Draco stayed silent, eyes averted, until Harry could not contain himself any longer.

"Was it really that bad?"

"No." Draco looked at him, and Harry saw that his eyes were once again inscrutable. "Did you think so?"

"Me?" Harry blushed and grinned. "No, I liked it."

"Are you going to do it again?"

Now it was Harry's turn to open and close his mouth, helplessly, for a moment. Then he blurted out, "It's not up to me! I mean... well... I'm not doing this by myself, right? What do _you_ want?"

Draco's face tightened. "Nothing."

Fear clutched at Harry's heart. Had he fooled himself, after all? Had he imagined the incredible rush of longing he had felt with the touch of Draco's mouth on his? Was he hallucinating, remembering the link, wanting something so badly that he created it in his own mind and deluded his own heart? Then he looked at Draco, really looked at him, refusing to be fooled by the mask of flawless ice he always wore, and saw a panic every bit as frantic as his own building inside him. Draco was not rejecting him, only protecting himself, which Harry could appreciate.

Pushing aside his own fear, he tried another approach. "If I try it again - kiss you again, I mean - will you hurt me?"

A ghost of a smile flickered across Draco's face. "Not unless you want me to."

"You are seriously weird, Malfoy. Do you know that?"

The smile appeared again, but it died almost at once. Drawing his knees up to his chest, Draco propped his chin on them and looped his arms around his shins. For several minutes, he stared out at the lake while Harry stared at him, and neither of them spoke. But finally, Draco turned to face Harry again. His eyes had darkened to the same brooding grey as the water in the lake. "What now?"

Harry opened his mouth to say _whatever you want_ but thought better of it in time. Instead, he asked, lightly, "May I see your hand?"

With a slight shrug, Draco stretched out his adamant hand to Harry. Harry clasped it in both of his own, turning it to look at the elegant contours and run his fingers over the hard, polished surface that was too cold for flesh but too alive for stone. He told himself that he was admiring the construction of this beautiful, inhuman limb, but he knew that the truth was he simply wanted an excuse to touch Draco, even if it was the one part of him that could not feel it.

"Is it hard to use?"

"For some things. I can use it well enough to fool the Slytherins, but they're a dim lot."

"Maybe you can switch to your right hand."

"Not for writing. Or for Quidditch."

Harry felt a fresh surge of guilt go through him. He had not failed to notice the slight awkwardness in Draco's movements when he reached to touch him, or the moment when he paused to gauge the distance between his fingertip and Harry's forehead. They were slight stumbles, almost undetectable, but to Harry they were glaringly obvious. He had played Quidditch against Draco and raced him to the snitch. He had watched Draco measure a delicate pinch of powdered unicorn horn into a bubbling cauldron. He knew, maybe better than anyone, just how precise and graceful Draco's hands could be, how fast his reflexes, how sure his movements. And knowing this as he did, Harry could not doubt that the uncertainty and clumsiness he saw in Draco now would irk him beyond bearing.

"I'm sorry, Draco."

Malfoy's lips tightened in annoyance, and he tried to draw his hand away, but Harry held onto it stubbornly, fingers locked around his wrist. 

"I'll help you train," Harry insisted. "We'll practice 'til you couldn't miss the snitch if you tried."

"Don't go all noble on me, Potter."

"Don't worry." 

Without stopping to consider what he was doing, Harry slid his hand from Draco's wrist up his arm to his neck. His fingers buried in the long hair spilling over the other boy's collar and curved around the back of his head, drawing him closer. Draco stiffened slightly, resisting him, and Harry leaned over to close the gap between them. 

"You don't bring out the noble streak in me," he murmured, as he brought his lips to Draco's.

He had meant it as a gentle and undemanding kiss, a gesture of reassurance maybe, or of tenderness. But he hadn't bargained on the jolt of excitement that went through him at the touch of the other boy's lips on his or the willingness with which Draco moved into his arms. He felt Draco's mouth open against his and forgot all about caution or gentleness. He forgot about everything except the feel and taste and delicious silver fire of Draco Malfoy.

A seething, gold-shot haze swam up in Harry, filling his head and blurring his thoughts, drawing him more and more deeply into the amazing kiss. He recognized it as his own wizard power - the same he had used to heal Draco of his injuries - and knew that it was responding to Draco's closeness. And he realized, with a surge of joy, that his power was still linked in his own mind and heart to the boy that he loved so completely, even without the Blood Link.

"Ermm..." 

The sound of someone clearing his throat just behind them shattered Harry's golden dream and brought Draco up with a start. Only as the other boy shoved him roughly away did Harry notice that they were lying on the grass, tangled together, with Draco's body beneath his. Draco pushed himself upright and twisted around in alarm, while Harry rolled onto his back and gazed bemusedly up at the intruder.

"What do you want, Crabbe?" Draco snapped.

Crabbe eyed him dubiously, taking in his rumpled hair and the hectic flush in his cheeks. Draco unconsciously lifted his hand to wipe it across his mouth.

"I wanted to talk to you," Crabbe said.

"I'm a little busy, here."

"Yeah. I can see that." One blunt toe scuffed uncomfortably at the grass. "What're you doing, Malfoy?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Draco retorted acidly.

"Making out with Potter."

For a moment, it looked as though Draco would explode, then he suddenly laughed. "You noticed, huh?"

"Why were you doing it?" Crabbe demanded.

Draco shrugged. "Because I wanted to."

"Really? That's kind of weird. I always figured if you snogged anybody it'd be Pansy."

"Me and Pansy Parkinson? _Eurgh_! I'd rather kiss... Hagrid!"

Crabbe nodded. "I guess so."

The look of horror on Draco's face made Harry laugh out loud, which earned him a searing glare. "That's not what I meant," Draco said through his teeth.

"_I'd_ rather kiss Hagrid than Pansy!" Harry assured him, still laughing. "I'd rather kiss Hagrid's _dog_ than Pansy!"

Draco paused for a moment, considering, then nodded and grinned. "Me, too."

Crabbe, who refused to be distracted by this exchange, turned back to Draco and asked, bluntly, "Are you shagging him, too?"

Draco's face froze. When he could find his voice again, he said, tightly, "I don't think that's any of your business."

Crabbe shrugged. "Okay. But it's still weird."

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Draco had still not managed to unclench his jaw, so the question came out as a hiss.

"Just wanted to tell you that I wrote to my dad. I told him the truth and told him that I'm staying. At Hogwarts, I mean."

Harry looked at him curiously. He had never pegged Crabbe as one to rebel against his parents or friends, but maybe he had misjudged the oafish boy.

"That makes us both traitors to the Cause," Malfoy remarked. "What about Goyle?"

"He's gone." Crabbe scuffed his toe into the ground again, his eyes averted from Malfoy's face. "So it's just... you and me."

Something in Draco softened at the look of abject misery on Crabbe's face. "They made their choice, Crabbe. They wanted to go."

"Yeah."

"But you made a smarter choice."

Crabbe's head came up and a spark showed in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"You and me both. We'll stick together, because we're Slytherins and we're better than the rest of these drones. But we'll stay here where we belong, with Dumbledore. Right?"

A wide smile broke across Crabbe's face. It was the first genuine smile Harry had ever seen on him, without a trace of sneering or gloating in it. "Right. Thanks, Malfoy." His gaze shifted nervously to Harry, then back again. "You gonna be hanging around with him, now?"

Draco shrugged again. "We'll see."

"Guess it's none of my business, but the Slytherins aren't gonna like it much. I'll see you around, Malfoy."

"See you."

Crabbe shuffled away, leaving Harry and Draco sitting on the grass together. Harry watched Crabbe lope back up the hill toward the castle, a thoughtful frown pulling his brows together.

"Did that mean what I think it did?"

"That Crabbe sided with Dumbledore against the Death Eaters? Yes."

"And that he's counting on you to watch his back." Harry's eyes flicked to Malfoy's face and caught a startled look there.

"Yeah, well... I wouldn't want my father to turn him into a toad or anything, so I guess I'd better look out for him."

Harry grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder. "You're going soft."

Draco turned to look directly at him, and there was no humor in his eyes. "You know he's going to tell all of Slytherin House what he saw. It's going to be all over school by dinner."

Harry's smile died. "Yeah? What does that mean for us?"

"You tell me, Perfect Bloody Potter. What're you going to say to all your Gryffindor buddies when they ask you why you were snogging the Enemy out by the lake?"

"That I liked it. That I'm going to do it again, any chance I get. And that if they call you the Enemy, I'll put a Furnunculus Curse on the lot of them."

"Even Granger and Weasley?"

"Even them."

"I don't think your reputation can stand it."

"What about _yours_, Prince of the Undead?"

Draco's eyes flew open. "What did you call me?"

"Oh." Harry chuckled. "Hermione came up with that one. She said you looked like a zombie and that Voldemort probably planned to..."

"Spare me. I really don't want to know."

"I was only joking." Harry leaned over, bringing his mouth close to Draco's and murmured, "You know I think you're almost as beautiful as you do."

Draco pulled away from Harry's attempt to kiss him and demanded, "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm teasing you, you prat." He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Why did you get mad when Crabbe asked if we were... you know..."

"Shagging?"

"Yeah."

"Because it's nobody's business but ours. When we do it..."

"When?"

"If. When. Whatever." Draco swallowed nervously, his grey eyes guarded. "What do you want from me, Potter?"

"I want it to be 'when'," Harry whispered. "And I want it to be soon."

"Are you asking me to have sex with you?"

At any other moment in his life, Harry would have flinched at the bluntness of the question or blushed in embarrassment. But at this moment, sitting on the grass by the lake, with Draco's body close beside his and Draco's eyes looking straight at him and the taste of Draco's kiss still on his lips, Harry had no room in him for embarrassment.

"No." Draco stiffened slightly, and Harry hurried to add, "Yes. Sort of."

"Make up your mind, Potter."

"I made it up a long time ago. It's not that I don't know what I want, it's that I... I don't know how to say it."

"It's simple. You just look at me with those big, green, kicked-puppy-dog eyes and say, "Draco Malfoy, you are so incredibly gorgeous that I can't keep my mitts off you, and I have to ravish you or I'll go mad.""

Harry smiled teasingly at him and murmured, "Draco Malfoy, you are so incredibly gorgeous that I can't keep my mitts off you, and I have to ravish you or I'll go mad. How was that?"

"Very good."

"Did it work?"

"Of course it worked, you moron."

"There's just one little problem..."

"What's that?"

"It isn't what I wanted to say."

"Oh." Draco managed to look hurt, but Harry wasn't fooled for a second. For the first time since the link had been severed, he felt as though he were once again sharing his awareness, his emotions, his very life's blood with the other boy, and he knew that Draco was neither hurt nor angry. He was afraid.

"I do want to ravish you, Draco," he said softly, "but I want it to be more than just a chance to kick up the dust in the Astronomy tower."

"Is this where you make the pretty speech about True Love and all that rot?"

"I want it to be the best thing you ever had in your life."

Draco gazed at him, unblinking, for a long minute. Then he answered simply, "It will be."

Harry took a moment to master the break in his voice, then said, "Let me just get this straight, for the record and all. Are you saying that you'd actually let me..."

A tiny smile curled the corners of Draco's mouth. "I'd help you."

Harry couldn't stand it. He had to kiss that secretly smiling mouth before he burst. He slid both his hands into the long, fine hair spilling over Draco's collar and twined his fingers in it, pushing the other boy back onto the rough grass. Draco tumbled backward, pulling Harry with him, and opened his mouth instantly to welcome Harry's kiss. In a heartbeat, they were straining together, tongues meeting desperately, mouths moving against each other with a hunger that terrified and elated them. Harry rolled half on top of Draco and plunged into the kiss with a ferocity he did not know he had in him. 

When he at last came up for air, Harry gazed down at Draco's face and saw that it was flushed and softened, his eyes bright with longing. Harry's own body was in a distressing condition that he knew he would not be able to conceal if he stood or sat up. The realization that he was about a heartbeat away from losing his virginity on the bank of the lake, with the giant squid and half the school likely watching, made his cheeks flame with embarrassment but did nothing to ease the burning in his blood.

As Harry broke the kiss and freed his mouth, Draco murmured in a small, doubtful voice the likes of which Harry had never heard him use before, "What's going to happen tomorrow, when we wake up and remember what we've done?"

"I'm going to sit right here and wait for you to show up, so I can do it again. And if you don't, I'll go looking for you."

"What if it's snowing?"

"You'd better dress warmly."

"Do you really want to be here with me? I mean _really_ want it, Harry?"

"Yes." Harry bent down to kiss him again, but Draco put his adamant fingers against his lips to stop him. 

"Why?"

"Because this is the best feeling I've ever had in my life."

A hint of dry amusement crept into Draco's voice. "All teenagers think that when they get their first good snogging."

"I'm not like all teenagers," Harry asserted, without a trace of arrogance. "I've seen death and suffering and total evil. I've lost the people I love most and found new ones to care about. I know what I want, Draco. I know love when I feel it."

Draco's eyes darkened with sudden pain. "I don't like that word."

"Why not?"

"It's not what you think it is."

"Because your father said he loved you and hurt you? Not everyone is that cold or cruel, Draco. Not everyone is Lucius Malfoy."

"Not everyone is Perfect Bloody Potter, either."

"No, but I am." He smiled happily down at the scowling archangel sprawled on the grass beneath him, thinking that there was not another face in all the world he treasured as he did that one. "And I love you."

**__**

To be continued...


	14. Adamant and Starlight

****

Author's Note: This chapter was a monster to write. It kept turning all angst-ridden on me, then I'd have to grab the boys by the collar, shake them, and tell them to play nice. I'm sorry it took so long! I'm not terribly confident about writing romance (hence all the spontaneous angst), but I hope this chapter came out okay.

Thank you for your patience and for all the wonderful reviews! Enjoy! -- Claire

****

Chapter 14: _Adamant and Starlight_

Harry ran down the gentle slope from the castle toward the lake, enjoying the crunch and slither of fresh snow beneath his boots, his face alight with happiness. It was Christmas Eve, and the world was blanketed in the white perfection of the season's first snowfall, the lake frozen solid, Hogwarts castle frosted like a particularly gothic wedding cake. To Harry, the winter landscape was beautiful and inviting beyond description. It had called to him all through breakfast, tempting him out of the castle, away from the furtive looks and determined silences that made his hours inside so uncomfortable. 

Out here in the clean, cold air, with virgin snow under his feet and the promise of Draco's company to warm him, it didn't matter that no one back there in the castle understood. It didn't matter that Ron and Hermione had gone home for the holidays, leaving him alone to face the confusion, suspicion and resentment of his classmates. It didn't matter that Harry seemed to be the only happy person in the world at the moment. Because he was happy - deeply, wonderfully, astoundingly happy - as he had never been in his life, and he didn't intend to let anyone or anything ruin this time for him. The horrors and tragedies of the outside world would come back to him. It was inevitable. But not yet, and not before he found the secret of making Draco just as happy as Harry was himself.

He spotted a dark figure silhouetted against the snow, moving slowly along the edge of the lake. He knew, without seeing the other boy's face, that it was Draco. The posture, the walk, the tilt of his head betrayed it as plainly as the glint of silver-blond hair in the sunlight. Harry put on a burst of speed and called a greeting.

At the sound of his voice, Draco halted and turned to face him. Harry sprinted the last few steps, kicking up snow from beneath his boots, and came to a panting stop at Draco's side. Without hesitation, he reached out and caught the other boy's arm, pulling him close and dropping a kiss on his lips. Draco accepted the touch of both his hand and his mouth without any sign of shyness, but the moment Harry broke the kiss, he turned and resumed his stroll along the lakeshore, forcing Harry to let go of his arm. Harry fell into step beside him and shoved his hands into his pockets. 

They walked together in silence, Draco's eyes on the distant shadow of the Forbidden Forest and Harry's eyes on Draco. The familiar archangel's face looked pale and drawn, as though Draco hadn't been sleeping, and when he wasn't consciously smiling at Harry, his mouth drooped in a distracted frown. Harry, who knew that face better than his own by now, and who loved it better than anything in the world, could not see the shadows beneath Draco's cheekbones and eyes without worrying.

"I missed you at breakfast today," Harry finally said, breaking the long silence.

"I was there." 

"I still missed you." Draco said nothing, and Harry went on, unselfconsciously, "I always miss you, when I can't talk to you." 

"Is that what you want to do? Talk?"

They had reached a tree, and Harry glanced up at it, laughing. "Maybe later." Putting his back to the tree trunk, he slipped an arm around Draco's waist and pulled him close. "After all, we can talk any time." 

Their breath steamed in the chill air as their lips met in a long, searing, mind-altering kiss. Draco softened instantly, slipping his arms around Harry's neck and leaning into the kiss, pressing his body the length of Harry's from lips to toes. In the time it took their mouths to find each other, he went from careful, cool distance to melting heat and started the golden fire singing in Harry's head. The combination was powerful and intoxicating, Draco's silver flames and Harry's gold ones, lust and love and wizarding power, all bound up in the touch of another boy's mouth on his. Harry held a creature of adamant and molten steel in his arms and swore to himself that he would never let it go. Never. Not if he burned forever in gold and silver fire with no hope of rescue. 

He had to break the kiss at last, when he felt an incredible heat gather in his body. Wizarding power turned to something else, something more driven and dangerous, and Harry knew that he had to stop or he'd quickly reach the point where he couldn't. It was no part of his long-term plan to shag Draco in a snow bank, under the gaze of hundreds of castle windows - much as he might enjoy it - so he had to exercise a bit of restraint. For now.

Lifting his head, Harry sucked in a deep, cooling breath and let it out on a heartfelt groan. "How do you do that, anyway?" he asked the bare branches over his head.

"Do what?" Draco said.

Harry looked down into his face and privately marveled at the difference a quick snog could make. Draco was no longer pale, distant or tired. He was completely present, focused, alight with pleasure, his body pliant and almost soft in Harry's arms. When Harry met his gaze, he lifted his eyebrows in question and smiled, very slightly, as if enjoying a private joke at Harry's expense. 

It was The Look. The one that destroyed Harry's rational mind and drove him to desperation with the need to snog Draco senseless. He had no defense against The Look and wanted none. When Harry saw it, he began to understand how the ancient Greeks could have fought ten years of war and sacked Troy to get one woman back. He'd do it. Not for Helen of Troy, who had nothing on Draco Malfoy as far as he was concerned. But for Draco and the chance to see The Look again? Oh yes, he'd do it, and Heaven help the Trojan who got in his way.

Luckily for both of them, Harry did not have to climb over a pile of dead warriors to reach Draco and wipe that smile off his face. He had only to tighten his hold on the other boy, lifting him nearly off his feet, and bend his head to kiss him so hard that he forgot how to breathe. Harry forgot, too, and he was getting dizzy by the time he came up for air. He heard Draco growl a wordless protest as he pulled away. Throwing caution to the wind, Harry pressed another kiss to Draco's temple, then to his forehead and eye, savoring the chance to touch him though it might well signal an abrupt end to their closeness. Draco's breath hissed between his teeth, and he stiffened slightly in surprise, but to Harry's relief he did not push away.

"How do you make me feel like a leper one minute and the King of the World the next?" Harry murmured into silver-gilt hair tickling his cheek.

This time, Draco stiffened in earnest. He put his hands on Harry's shoulders and shoved against them hard enough to force their bodies apart. He was frowning, the expression sharply at odds with his flushed cheeks, reddened lips and heavy-lidded, glittering eyes. 

"Like a leper? What do you mean?"

"When you won't let me touch you."

"You touch me all the time."

"I don't mean like this. Not that this isn't nice..." Harry tightened the clasp of his arms, trying to coax Draco back against him, but the other boy was having none of it. "I mean just... touch you. Hold your hand. Put my arm around you when we sit together. Little things. Why won't you let me touch you like that?"

"It's too easy. It doesn't mean anything."

"It makes me feel closer to you and like... like you actually enjoy my company."

Draco's frown deepened, but Harry saw more pain in it than discontent. "Do you really worry about that?"

"I worry about a lot of things, including that."

"I'm here, aren't I? I wouldn't be, if I didn't like your company."

"But you aren't happy."

Draco stepped away from him, his body unconsciously drawing up haughtily, distancing himself from Harry in every way he could. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm fine."

As Draco began walking slowly, continuing his interrupted stroll by the lake, Harry pushed himself away from the tree and hastily straightened his clothes. Draco, for all that he had withdrawn so abruptly, was not trying to escape, so Harry had no hesitation in falling to step beside him again. He'd grown used to Draco's prickly moods and knew better than to take this as a true rejection.

"Is it because of what they're saying around school?" he asked, waving toward the castle above them. "The things they call you?"

Draco's lip curled in a sneer. "Potter's Plaything?"

"I didn't think you cared about gossip."

"I don't. I don't give a flaming, bloody damn what a bunch of half-wit half-wizards call me."

A pang went through Harry, and he whispered, "I hate it when you talk that way."

"You asked."

"And I think you're lying to me. I think it bothers you when they call you my plaything or my trophy, and you take it out on me. Push me away. Pretend you don't care about _anything_, including me."

"Is that what you think?" Draco stopped walking and turned to face Harry. His eyes were snapping and his face cold. "That's brilliant, Potter. I had no idea I was pushing you away, when I let you grab me and kiss me and wrap yourself around me in full view of the school. I had no idea I was treating you like a leper, taking out my humiliation on you, making you fret over my delicate mental state. I _thought_ I was giving you what you wanted."

"You are. But it's no good, if it isn't what _you_ want, too."

Draco just stared at him, unblinking, his face frozen into a look of blank disbelief.

"Why is that so hard for you to accept?" Harry asked. "Why can't you believe that it matters to me? I'm happy, Draco. For the first time in my life, I feel like I've got something that's really mine, just for me, just what I wanted, and it makes me so happy I don't know what to do with it all! Now I want to make you that happy, to give you what you want, what you deserve, just for you."

"You already have," Draco whispered.

"No, I haven't. I may be lovesick, but I'm not stupid."

A small, stiff smile tilted Draco's lips for a moment. "Granger said something like that about you."

"I wish I could wander around the castle in a sickly-sweet haze, writing bad poetry to your left eyebrow, telling everyone what a fabulous kisser you are and exchanging lurid stories with my friends in the dormitory at night." Draco flinched, and Harry went on, earnestly, "But that's not real life. That's not what you do when you really love someone and want to make it last longer than a couple of late nights behind the greenhouse."

"You think we've got more than a couple of nights in us?"

"I know I do. I can only hope you do, too."

Draco gazed at him thoughtfully, face distant and a little sad. "That's why, isn't it?"

"Why what?"

He turned quickly away, giving Harry only a glimpse of the dark pain in his eyes. "You're afraid to use up your couple of nights. Well... I suppose it's better than being Potter's Plaything, but it still stinks." With that, Draco set off up the hill at a near run, leaving Harry standing by the lake, staring at him in shock.

"Draco!" The slender figure did not slow or turn. "Draco, come back! Please!" But Draco did not come back.

*** *** ***

The sound of muffled voices startled Harry out of his brooding thoughts and back to the present. He glanced around the empty common room, hunting for the source of the noise, then down at his watch. He had missed lunch. No wonder his stomach felt so hollow and heavy. 

The portrait swung open and Seamus climbed through the hole. He hesitated when he saw Harry seated by the fire, then nodded once, his face carefully neutral.

"Hallo, Harry." 

Harry caught the note of constraint in his voice but chose to ignore it. "Hallo, Seamus," he answered easily.

"What're you up to?"

Harry lifted the book that lay open on his lap - Ron's copy of _Flying with the Cannons_. "Just reading." 

"We're having a snowball fight. Gryffindors versus Hufflepuffs. Want to come?"

"No, thanks."

A strange, rather nasty expression flitted over Seamus' good-natured face, and his mouth twisted into a mocking smile. "What's the matter, Potter? Don't you play with Gryffindors anymore?"

Harry shot him a cold, furious look that wiped the smile from his lips and rocked him back on his heels. "Have we got a problem, Finnegan?" 

"Yeah, I think we do."

But before Seamus could vent the spleen so clearly rising in him, the portrait swung open again and Neville stuck his head in.

"Come on, Seamus! Get your cloak and let's go!" His eyes lighted on the boy seated by the fire, and he smiled. "Oh, hey, Harry. Do you want to help us trounce the Hufflepuffs?"

"Don't bother. I already asked," Seamus snapped, as he strode over to the stairs and bounded up them two at a time. "Precious Potter has better things to do!"

Neville looked confused for a moment, then understanding hit him and he rolled his eyes at Harry, grinning apologetically. "Don't pay any attention to him. He's just mad."

"Aren't you mad?" Harry asked, trying not to sound too defensive.

"Me? What have I got to be mad about?"

"Oh, I don't know... the Green and Silver Menace?"

"I've known you for six years, Harry, and you've never let me down. Why should now be any different, just because you're spending your time with Malfoy?"

Harry took a moment to absorb this, then said, fervently, "Thanks, Neville."

Neville blushed, his round face alight with shy pleasure. When he spotted Seamus standing on the bottom stair, he called, "Hurry up or we'll miss the war!"

Seamus crossed to him without acknowledging Harry and climbed through the portrait hole in stony silence.

"We'll be out by the Quidditch pitch," Neville said, "if you change your mind." Then he, too, was gone and Harry was alone again. 

Slumping back in his chair, Harry turned once again to the vexed question of what to do about Draco. He was not angry with Draco for his behavior that morning. Nor was he afraid that the other boy's temper tantrum meant they were finished. He thought he knew what had sparked that little explosion and didn't blame Draco for reaching the end of his patience. But Harry was deeply frustrated.

It was exhausting, he decided, being the one who always made the first move. He was scared, too. He was uncertain. He wanted Draco to take the initiative once in a while. He wanted some guidance from the boy he hoped to call his lover, some indication of when and where and how that change might come about. If he screwed up and hurt Draco, he would lose him. And Harry suspected that the loss of Draco's love would be the one blow he couldn't take. It would, finally and completely, destroy him.

But how was he supposed to unravel the mysteries of their relationship all on his own? If Draco wouldn't tell him what he wanted, how was Harry supposed to figure it out? If he would just tell Harry what he wanted, this would all be so much simpler!

Harry couldn't help smiling at that thought. Sometimes, when he lay alone in his bed at night, unable to sleep, thinking of the hours he had spent walking a careful distance away from Draco and talking about Quidditch or Potions class, he would try to imagine Draco casting aside his reserve and throwing himself at Harry in a fury of passion. The picture never failed to excite him, but it also made him laugh, because the Draco who did things like that was not the Draco he knew.

Draco did not ask. He did not demand. He did not reach for Harry, ever, except the one time that he had rested his adamant fingertip against Harry's scar for a moment in a carefully neutral gesture. And the truth was that Harry could hardly blame him. They didn't have a good record, when it came to Draco asking and Harry responding. One try, six years ago, had blown up in their faces and set their feet on a path of hatred, rancor and jealousy.

Harry could still remember the scene in the hospital wing... a small figure in flannel pajamas standing at the window, his entire body taut with strain, his eyes like wounds in his pale face. Harry's hands on his stiff shoulders, sharing warmth and the closest thing to comfort he would allow. And his voice, so low and rough that Harry had to strain to hear it, saying, _You made the choice for both of us that day... You spat in my face and walked away._

He could still hear the pain in Draco's voice - an old, festering, bitter pain that had ripened over years - when he spoke of that day. And he knew that someone as proud and prickly as Draco would never risk a second rejection of that magnitude. Would Harry, if he were in Draco's shoes? Maybe, but as Dumbledore had said - was it only a few weeks ago? - Harry always listened to his heart.

Except when he tried to over-think things, Harry reflected, ruefully. Maybe that was the source of his problem. He wanted to be cautious - like Draco - and guard himself against every possible mishap, while he expected Draco to be open and reckless, like the stranger in his fantasies who threw him down on the ground and demanded that he shag him silly. The last time Harry had tried caution, he had spent a week in agony, convinced that Draco hated him, all because he didn't trust his own instincts. Didn't listen to his own heart.

Well, never let it be said that a Gryffindor didn't learn from his mistakes! To hell with caution! Draco was not going to magically turn into a different person to suit Harry. Draco was Draco, and Harry would just have to learn to deal with his perverse nature. Which meant that Harry would have to make things happen himself, rather than waiting around for Draco to take the lead.

It was Christmas Eve, Harry was in love, and he wanted to be with the person he loved tonight. That was a given. The person he loved had run off in a snit that morning, so Harry would have to charm or coerce him into another meeting. Not too difficult, he judged. Probably a simple invitation would do the trick. He could not afford a repeat of the morning's temper tantrum, so he would have to be very careful not to set Draco off again. For that, all he had to do was to remember a few rules: no holding hands or casual touching, no asking what Draco wanted, and no apologies. Which left only the question of where Harry wanted to take his ill-tempered archangel on this cold Christmas Eve night to have his way with him.

Harry bounced to his feet, his book sliding unnoticed to the floor, and raced up the stairs to the dormitory. In his room, he flung open his trunk and dug out parchment, quill and ink. Then he sat down on the bed and commenced chewing on the end of the quill.

Draco would come; Harry was sure of that. And Harry would scrupulously follow all the rules, doing nothing to upset him. What would happen then was anybody's guess, but the instincts that Harry had tried so hard to ignore these past few weeks told him that he had only to make the first move. That's all Draco was waiting for.

Harry grinned and dipped his pen in the ink. It had to be someplace private, where they would not be disturbed. Someplace romantic, though Harry hadn't the foggiest idea what Draco would find romantic. Someplace... someplace perfect.

He scribbled a short note on the parchment, then tore off the excess and dropped it back in the trunk. Down the stairs and back through the common room he ran, nearly colliding with Lavender Brown, as she stepped through the portrait hole. Harry gasped a greeting and an apology in one breath, ducked through the hole, and was gone before Lavender could answer. 

*** *** ***

Draco stared critically at his reflection, taking in every detail of his appearance with detached clarity. He'd worked very hard to achieve this result. He had even managed to pull his hair back with a ribbon, though no one - least of all Potter - would ever know how long it had taken him to tie a decent bow behind his neck, where he could neither see it nor feel it with his crystal fingers. The few strands of hair that fell loosely over his forehead, tickling his eyebrows, softened the austere style just enough to suit him. In fact, the entire picture suited him and made him feel more confident than he had in weeks.

Draco was neither as vain as most people believed, nor as desperate for attention. But he was a person who valued power, and he knew how to play to his strengths. When it came to Harry Potter, the only strength Draco had was the effect of his looks on the strangely modest, susceptible boy. He had no desire to dominate Potter or to push him away. He did not put on his most elegant and flattering clothing or wrestle with the impossible task of tying a bow at the nape of his neck so he could crush Potter's fragile ego beneath his expensive boot heel. He did it because the unabashed, almost childish delight in Harry's face when he looked at Draco gave him an illusion of control and of mastery, however fleeting, and made him feel just a little less overwhelmed by his own feelings.

If he were to think about it, Draco would probably find some reason to distrust Potter's admiration. He would decide that it wasn't genuine delight at all, but pride of ownership. After all, Draco was his trophy, and the more beautiful the prize the more value it held in the eyes of others. If he were to think about it, he would realize that the Ravenclaws were right and he was nothing more than Potter's Plaything. If he were to think about it... which he wouldn't.

Calling his mind sternly to order, he smoothed his cuffs down over his hands and squared his shoulders. Not too shabby for a wizard who could barely do up his own buttons. But was it the right effect, or was he leaning too heavily on the elegant, over-priced aristocrat look? Potter could be strange about these things, sliding back into Muggle thinking or turning awkward over money. Look at the way he'd reacted to the bag full of junk Crabbe had brought him in the hospital! Draco smoothed the fine silk of his sleeve again, noting the way the lace on his cuff fell over his adamant hand like a tracing of snow on clear ice, and tried to see it through Potter's eyes.

After a moment, he shook his head and smiled wryly at his reflection. It was hopeless. He couldn't look at himself the way Potter did, no matter how hard he tried. The best he could do was to arm himself for the evening ahead and hope he'd chosen the right ammunition. 

Potter's note had given him very little information to work with. Dropped in his dinner plate by a mangy little owl that looked more like a feathered Snitch than a bird, it had been short and to the point, giving nothing away.

__

Meet me on the North Tower at eleven tonight. Please. Love, Harry.

Typical of Potter to issue a command, then soften it with a touch of pleading as an afterthought. Typical of Draco to bridle at the summons, grumble over the feathers in his food, then rush off to spend hours getting ready for only Potter-knew-what, without ever admitting to himself that he was actually _going_. But of course, he _was_ going, as Potter no doubt knew. 

Giving himself a final, measuring look, Draco pulled a leather glove onto his right hand and swung his cloak around his shoulders. The finished picture was immaculate enough to please the most stringent critic, and Draco couldn't help giving his image in the mirror a slight, mocking smile. Off to charm the knight errant into sparing the life - if not the virtue - of the wicked dragon. 

"Well, Malfoy," he murmured to his own reflection, "time to face the music."

No one in the common room acknowledged his presence as he strode through. He stepped from the Slytherin dungeon into the dank, low-ceilinged passage outside and headed for the stairs that led to the upper castle. Like a black and silver shadow, he slipped carefully through the dark corridors, making for the North Tower and Harry, and in his stealth he had no need of an invisibility cloak. 

The upper tower room was empty, but there was a ladder pushed beneath the trapdoor that let onto the roof. Draco did not hesitate, but set his feet on the rungs and climbed swiftly to the trapdoor. Outside, it was bitterly cold. The clouds had blown away to leave the sky clear and a glorious array of stars overhead. Potter was sitting on a blanket near the parapet, his back to the trapdoor, but at the sound of its protesting hinges, he turned quickly to see Draco's silver-gilt head poke through the hole.

Getting hastily to his feet, Harry crossed to the trapdoor and held out a hand to pull Draco up. Draco climbed onto the roof, acutely aware of Potter's eyes on him. Just as he had expected, Potter was dressed in a shapeless bundle of ill-fitting Muggle clothes, with a Weasley sweater on top for warmth, his hair standing up erratically and his glasses sitting crooked on his nose. And it didn't matter a damn, because when he smiled, his face lit up, his eyes danced, and suddenly, there was nothing in the world more alluring than that lumpy green sweater with the H on the front.

Draco smiled back, fleetingly, then turned to look at the blanket. Harry had turned it into a little oasis of schoolboy comforts. There were several bottles of butterbeer, pumpkin tarts, various packages from Honeydukes in shiny paper, and a jar of blue wandfire, burning like a brazier, with a kettle perched on top of it. A slight shimmer in the air told Draco that Potter had cast some kind of spell over the blanket, but what exactly he couldn't tell.

His mouth twitched in a half smile. "Waiting for your date, Potter?"

Harry laughed. "Not anymore."

Draco told himself not to betray his pleasure by blushing. He couldn't afford to let his guard down yet and expose himself to Potter's sharp, knowing eyes.

Harry nodded toward the blanket and said, "Come sit down."

"It's freezing out here, Potter. If you wanted to go on a date, did it have to be an Arctic expedition?"

"It's warmer over here. Trust me."

With a shrug, Draco followed him over to the blanket. As he stepped through the telltale magical shimmer, he felt the temperature rise, and he realized that Harry had cast a warming spell. It only came up to Draco's midriff, so his legs were nicely toasty while his head was freezing. He chuckled and sat down, folding himself onto the blanket and bringing his entire body into the shelter of the spell.

"Nice touch," he remarked, lightly, as he unfastened his cloak and shrugged it back off his shoulders.

Harry grinned at him, eyes gleaming in the combined light of wandfire, warming spell and stars. "I know lots of useful spells."

Draco's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You're flirting with me."

"I usually do."

"Yes, but this morning I bit your head off and walked out on you. Shouldn't you be angry? Or at least a bit peeved?"

"Nope."

"Are you just going to pretend it didn't happen?"

"No, I'm going to make sure it doesn't happen again." He gave Draco a cocksure smile and lifted his hands, spreading them wide to show his empty palms. "No touching, I promise, unless it's for a good snogging. Not so much as a quick grope under your cloak. Though, I would like to get that piece of hair out of your face..."

Unconsciously, Draco leaned his head away from Harry, making the other boy laugh.

"I said I wouldn't."

Draco tried to smile, but it came out crooked. "Right. Perfect Bloody Potter always keeps his word."

"I'd also like to take off that ribbon," Harry added. 

"Hey! That took me a long time to tie!"

"Really?" The confident smile dissolved into one of simple delight. "Did you do it for me?"

Draco flushed and muttered under his breath, "Maybe I just wanted to comb my hair," but Harry ignored this.

"Thank you, Draco."

This conversation was not going the way Draco had envisioned it, and he found himself getting increasingly uncomfortable. He turned his attention to the steaming kettle and, grasping at the handy distraction, asked, "What's that?"

"Mulled cider. It seemed like a proper drink for a cold Christmas Eve. Want some?"

Draco shrugged and nodded, once more trying not to show his pleasure. He loved spiced cider, and he felt a warm, happy glow in the pit of his stomach at the thought that Harry had spent his evening dreaming up proper Christmas Eve treats to share with him on this icy tower roof. The cider was a coincidence, he knew, but it made him ridiculously happy anyway.

Harry handed him a cup, and he curved his right hand around it, soaking up the heat that flowed through the ceramic. He kept his gaze on the drifting steam, away from Harry's face, and hoped that the other boy would not notice the stain of color in his cheeks.

"Do you know why I asked you to come up here?" Potter suddenly asked.

Draco glanced up at him. "So we could drink cider and make out?"

"Obviously, but why here? There are warmer places to make out..."

"Isn't that my line." He looked at Harry steadily for a moment, then dropped his flippant tone. "I don't know. Why?"

"Because it seemed like a place where you belong, with the stars and the snow and the huge black sky. A place where your beauty fits."

If anyone else had said such a thing to him, Draco would have laughed. But the stilted and rather sentimental phrases sounded utterly natural on Harry's lips, and they brought equally impossible words, unbidden, to his own. 

"I belong anywhere you are," he murmured, then, acidly, "and you bloody well know it, you prat."

"Yes, I do." Harry gazed directly at him, drinking in his face, and Draco turned away to stare into his cup again. After a moment, Harry said, "If I ask you what you're thinking, will you tell me the truth?"

"Are we playing that game again?"

"It's not a game. I need to know."

Draco hesitated, feeling a cold trickle of fear go down his back, then he nodded.

"Why are you so sad?" Harry whispered.

"Because I feel betrayed," Draco answered, without thinking.

"By me?"

"Yes."

"What have I done?"

"It's what you haven't done. You haven't..."

Harry's eyes fixed unwaveringly on Draco, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Made love to you?" Draco nodded. "I didn't know it meant that much to you."

"I thought it meant something to you."

"It does. So much that I'm terrified of it. But you don't really think, because we haven't..."

"It's _why_ we haven't done it. You don't trust me to stay, afterward." He saw understanding flash through Harry's eyes, followed closely by pain, and he turned away so he wouldn't have to watch the play of emotions in the other boy as he spoke. "I didn't figure it out until this morning, when you made that crack about having more than a couple of nights in us."

"But Draco..."

"Before that, I was just confused. I didn't want to believe the whispers in the castle. I was sure that you would never use me like... like..."

"A trophy?"

Draco felt his face heat, but he kept his head up and his voice level. He did not want to say any of these things or expose himself to Harry in this way, but he had agreed to tell the truth. And if he were going to speak this kind of truth, then perhaps this tall, isolated tower in the middle of a frozen night, where he and Harry were pinned up against the stars and utterly alone, was the one safe place to do it.

"I believed you when you said you wanted it. Every time we were close, you made it impossible for me _not_ to believe you. But then you would pull away, start talking, try to fondle me like I was some kind of toy that you had the right to play with. And when we were alone - really alone, where no one could see us - you didn't touch me at all."

The words were coming more easily as he grew used to the sound of his own voice and let some of his brewing resentment come out. "I waited for you to make up your mind, or screw up your courage, or whatever it was that needed doing. I told myself that you knew more about this stuff than I did, that I could trust your instincts better than my own. I waited, Harry, and I waited. Maybe it doesn't feel like very long to you, but it feels like an eternity to me! Every time you kissed me and I _knew_ you meant it, it only hurt worse when you backed away!"

"You could have told me how you felt," Harry interjected, softly.

"How? Throw myself on your neck and beg you to take me to bed? That's very dignified!"

"Just _tell_ me. Like you are now. Only next time, do it before you start losing sleep over it."

"You make it sound so easy."

"It could be. Or at least less agonizing. Draco, can I ask you something?"

He gave a small, choked laugh. "Can I stop you?"

"Why do you pull away when I touch you?"

"I told you, it's too easy. It makes me feel... cheap, I guess."

"Does everything have to be hard?"

"Love does. Admit it, Harry. Loving me is hard."

"Sometimes. But other times, it's as natural and easy as breathing." Harry eyed him intently. "So you don't believe that I mean it when I try to be... gentle?" 

Draco shook his head and took swallow of cider to mask his face from those piercing eyes.

"But you believe it when I kiss you like I did by the tree this morning."

"It's kind of hard not to believe you when... well..."

"When you can tell just how _badly_ I mean it."

Draco grinned down at the cup in his hands, his blush hot on his cheeks. "Yeah."

"Let me get this straight. You believe that I want to get into your pants, but you don't believe that I want to touch you just for the sake of touching you. Just because I like it."

"I guess that's right."

"That means you don't believe I really love you."

"No. It means I'm not terribly clear on how love works. I know you love me, Harry. And I know you want to get into my pants. But I don't know what else there is to it."

"I could show you, if you'd let me."

Draco gazed doubtfully at him. "I don't know."

"There is more to it than sex, even for teenage boys."

"Maybe."

They both fell silent for a long minute. Then Draco picked up the thread of truth-telling with a question of his own.

"If you want to get into my pants so badly, why haven't you done it yet?"

"A lot of reasons."

"Give me the highlights."

"Okay. Because I don't want you to think it's only about that. Because I want it to be so special that you'll never doubt me again. Because I wasn't sure what you wanted, or when, or how to do it just right without scaring you off. Because there's something amazing about waiting and wanting so much, and it brings you back to me day after day..."

"That's not what brings me back, Harry. Or not the only thing." He fixed Harry with his most intent gaze, dropping his guard at last to let the other boy see the fierce, almost desperate yearning in him. The answering blaze of hunger in those myopic green eyes made his stomach clench painfully. "I have all the nights in me that you can stand, and then some. You just have to trust me to stay."

Harry leaned close but, true to his word, did not touch him. The other boy's breath was warm on Draco's face when he whispered, "I love you so much that sometimes I think I'll go mad from it." 

"You already are mad, if you love me. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

"I don't care. The only thing I care about is having you with me."

Draco wanted to reach for Harry and pull him into a kiss that would melt the rivets on his jeans. He wanted it so badly that his chest ached from the pressure of it. But his hands wouldn't move, his body wouldn't obey him, and he could only sit there, looking into Potter's face, wishing that he did not have six years of bitterness and suspicion weighing him down at this particular moment.

Fingers brushed his jaw, sliding into his hair. Draco closed his eyes and muttered, "You're breaking your promise."

From less than a finger's breadth away, Harry answered, "No, I'm not." 

Then those familiar hands were drawing him close and the mouth he adored was fastening over his and the blood was singing in his ears, drowning out the chorus of fear that tormented him. Draco took one shuddering breath and let go, abandoning himself to the heat and longing of Harry's kiss, casting aside reason and resistance, forgetting his own name until he heard it again from Harry's lips.

"Draco."

Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes open again to find that Harry had broken the kiss but had not drawn away any farther than necessary to move his lips. His eyes were half open, gleaming in a way that made Draco hurt to have his arms around him, and his hands were still clasping Draco's head. "What."

"I think you just spilled hot cider in my lap."

"Bloody Hell!" Draco pulled abruptly away from Harry and looked down at the cup still clutched in both his hands. It was nearly empty, while both Harry's sweater and his own shirt had great, amber-colored stains down their fronts. He plucked at his shirt, grimacing, then started to laugh.

"You might have damaged something valuable, you know," Harry scolded.

Draco just laughed harder. "It's not _that_ hot, you git!" Still laughing, he toppled back to lie on the blanket, his body going limp as the last of his tension drained away. "Gryffindors are such babies!"

"And Slytherins are _mean_. Here, let's see how you like it when I pour a whole kettle of the stuff down your trousers!"

"Don't waste it! I'm warm enough already!"

Harry rolled his eyes and groaned, setting Draco off laughing again. When he finally stopped, he felt drained and happy, as though his fit of hilarity had banished some lingering shadow in him. He gazed up, through the faint brightness of Harry's warming spell, at the masses of stars overhead and wished that he never had to move again. Never had to disturb this moment.

He heard Potter stir and turned to see the other boy stretching out on the blanket beside him. They lay shoulder-to-shoulder, looking at the wide winter night, but thinking only about what was happening inside the sheltered, warm space they shared. 

"You're such a perfectionist, Potter," Draco mused, his eyes still on the stars. "Things will never be right enough for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But that's okay. I can wait, as long as I know why."

"Can you?"

"Mm-hm."

"So, if I decided that we shouldn't sully our virtue until we're legally adults, you'd be okay with that?"

Draco turned to shoot him a sour glare and caught him trying to wipe a grin from his lips. He didn't manage it very well. "_Sully our virtue_?"

"Well, we are kind of young."

He knew that Potter was baiting him, but he couldn't quite hide the edge of panic in his voice when he demanded, "What are you saying?"

Harry twisted onto his side and pushed himself up on one elbow. He looked down at Draco, his eyes gleaming in that disturbing way again. "Put your cup down."

Draco put his cup down.

"Now listen very carefully." Leaning closer to him, Harry said, very softly but clearly, "Draco Malfoy, you are so incredibly gorgeous that I can't keep my mitts off you and I have to ravish you or I'll go mad."

"Do you mean it this time?"

"I mean it. Did it work?"

"Can't you tell?"

"Say it," Harry urged.

"It worked." A sob was rising in Draco's throat, threatening to choke him, but he could not risk letting it out. If Harry heard, he would know everything - everything Draco had fought so hard not to reveal by word or look or touch for fear of driving him away again. Ruthlessly, he swallowed the sound and let his eyelids fall nearly closed to mask the fierce hunger in his eyes.

"We're going someplace dangerous, Draco. I can feel it," Harry whispered, letting his head droop even closer to Draco's. The brush of warm air on Draco's mouth when he spoke was an agony, but Draco remained outwardly still and poised. "Someplace far from everything we know. Once we're there..."

"We won't come back," Draco finished for him.

"No. We won't." 

Then Harry's mouth was on his, so lightly that it might have been his imagination, had it not been for the liquid heat that flowed through his body at the delicate touch. His eyes fell closed and his lips parted in a vulnerable, pleading gesture that terrified him even as he made it. Once again, he could not move for the fear in him, and once again, Harry understood.

Harry's hands slipped around his neck and up to cradle his head, lifting it from the blanket, and Harry's mouth pressed down hard on his. In the space of a breath, Draco found himself pinned beneath the other boy's weight, his head thrown back, his mouth open to receive the full, furious demand of Harry's kiss. The sob rose again in his throat, betraying him, baring him to those eyes that missed nothing and forgave nothing, but Draco didn't care. He would tear open his chest and show Potter his very soul if that's what it took. So he let the sound come, giving voice to the love that haunted him in the only way he could manage.

To his dismay, Harry broke off the kiss and pressed his lips to Draco's temple. The other boy was shaking violently. Draco could feel it in his hands, his arms, his lips, and he could feel the thudding of Harry's heart in his own chest. Harry remained very still, sprawled on top of Draco, his breath burning Draco's cheek. Draco made no move to escape or to recapture the kiss. As always, he held himself in reserve, waiting for Potter to give a sign of what he wanted. But Harry said nothing, and the pain in Draco's body was more than he could stand with the thing he desired so close.

"Are we going to do this, Harry?"

Harry lifted his head and braced one hand on the ground, pushing himself slightly away. The eyes he fixed on Draco were bright and earnest, no trace of a smile in them. And no doubt.

"Yes. And when we're done, you'll stay with me. You won't get up and walk away. You won't look at me with those cold, forgetful eyes. You'll stay with me."

It wasn't a question, but Draco answered anyway. "I'll stay."

"Because you love me."

Draco swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry with mingled fear and desire, and Harry brushed his lips lightly with his own.

"It's okay," Harry whispered, "you don't have to say it."

Harry's mouth came down hard on his, and Draco suddenly had no breath or reason left in him to argue. He felt Harry's hands on him, pulling at his clothing, touching his bare skin in ways that no one had ever touched him, and he wanted to scream but he could not let go of Harry's lips long enough to do it. He was lost, adrift, burning and drowning all at once, and Harry was the only solid thing left in his universe. Harry, who had brought him to this place and thrown him into the black sea, and who now floated with him in the treacherous currents, tangled together with him on the breast of the water. Harry, who loved him more than anyone ever had and hurt him more than his father ever could, but who would never leave him to burn and drown alone. Harry, whom he loved with everything in him. His Harry.

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Finis.

****

Final Note: Yes, this is the last chapter. No, I'm not done with the story. I've already started a sequel, called _Adamant and Starlight_, that picks up the narrative a few months later. I didn't make it a continuation of this one, because it focuses on a separate series of events and deserves its own story arc. 

Anyway... the sequel is underway. I'll begin posting it very soon on both ff.net and Schnoogle.

My deepest thanks to all of you who've read, reviewed and enjoyed my story! I have appreciated every word of encouragement and advice! I truly hope you like the last chapter, and I hope you'll drop in and check out the sequel, say hello, tell me what you think, hang out with Harry and Draco a while... g

All the best,

-- CorvetteClaire


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